


'tis the season (to love you)

by twosetmeridian



Series: deck the halls (with dreams of us) [1]
Category: Twosetviolin
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Ice Skating, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Road Trips, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violins, aww yeahhhh, that blessed tag mwahahaha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 37,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21740989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twosetmeridian/pseuds/twosetmeridian
Summary: In which Brett concocts a plan that isdefinitelyfoolproof, Eddy becomes weirdly overcommitted to this fake boyfriend thing, and the boys conduct a masterclass in acting while lying to Absolutely Everyone.(Nah, everyonetotallyknows.)Or: the Christmas fake dating!AU that no one asked for, and the plot bunny that wouldn’t leave me alone until I wrote it down.
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Series: deck the halls (with dreams of us) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2047697
Comments: 367
Kudos: 728





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [心动好时节](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27895660) by [asukaJude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asukaJude/pseuds/asukaJude)



> Heyyyyy! <3 Back at it again with another gift of love to the Twoset and Breddy fandom. As always, hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> There may be some instances in the fic that would be considered inaccurate should they happen in real life. For that, I apologize, and I hope that it doesn't get in the way of your enjoyment of this story. :-D
> 
> Critiques, feedback, and suggestions are highly encouraged; I welcome them! Just please be fair and respectful. Thank you very much! <3
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; nothing written here is real. Obviously Brett and Eddy are their own persons and therefore not mine (no matter how much I wish it).

“So you will join me for Christmas, Little Yang?”

“Yes, Ah Ma. Mama and Papa told me. They probably just want me out of the way for their trip to Taiwan, though."

“Tsk tsk, you must not say that. I told them I was getting a little lonely, so they ask you to come. Still, you are sure you would rather spend the holidays with your ailing old lady than with your friends?”

“What—of course it’s fine, grandmamma. I don’t have many friends anyway; you know all I do around here is practice.”

“You do not need to lie to me, Little Yang. I know you are like a wild animal there; I see the pictures. I have learned to use the Facebook.”

“. . . Remind me to have a chat with whoever taught you how."

“Heh. Ah, but Edward, Little Chen. . .are you two not still friends?”

“Hmmh? Wait— _oh_ , you mean Eddy?”

“ _Aiyah_ —yes, that young man. His other name always escapes me.”

“Ah, well, we’re definitely still friends.”

“Good, good. I would hate to see such a wonderful boy leave your side. You know?”

“. . . Right. Okay, sure, grandmamma. Um, did you need me to bring anything else to your—”

“Your grandmother will be very happy if you do not come alone.”

“. . . Huh?”

“Bring your date along too—is that what you young ones call your lovers nowadays?”

“ _Grandmamma!_ ”

“Ach, I am sorry to offend your delicate sensibilities, my little one. I only wish to see your special one for the holidays.”

“But I don’t have a—”

“You do not need to lie to me, Little Yang. I know it is young Chen who has been by your side for so long. I only wish to see you two for myself.”

“Wait, but we aren’t—“

“I do so hope you will bring your fine young man over to visit me too. It is all this old woman wants, you know. Maybe then, I will see if I can find those dusty manuscripts in my trunk for my favorite grandson to have."

“. . .”

"And perhaps I may even be persuaded to give away my Stradivarius?"

". . . Okay, grandmamma, you win. I'll bring my, uh, special one over with me for you to meet."

"Ah, splendid! I am very happy. I will see you in a few days, Little Yang."

"Bye, Ah Ma."

". . ."

". . ."

". . ."

". . . _Shit_."


	2. CHAPTER ONE

Here’s the thing, the first and foremost thing one needs to know about Brett Yang: he is a brave, brave soul.

“My grandma thinks we’re together, so will you please come visit her with me for Christmas as my fake boyfriend?”

Here’s the second thing one needs to know about Brett Yang: he's not above doing outrageous things to get what he wants. Case in point: this elaborate plan he’s concocted in his head. All he needs to do to get started is to persuade the man in question, who’s currently looking at him like he’s Beethoven fresh out of the grave. Which is kind of unfair, considering the circumstances he’s in. _Honestly._

After a few seconds, Eddy finally snaps out of his stupor, glancing at the mug in his hand like it holds the secrets to the universe before his gaze shifts over to Brett. “Excuse me?”

Brett pours himself a cup of coffee before sliding into a seat opposite Eddy, wasting no time launching into his prepared spiel. “I know your parents are away, your sister’s preparing for her hot gig in Rotterdam, and you’ve got nowhere else to spend the holidays but _here_ , so I’m donning the helm of a savior and extending you a way outta this place.”

“Hey, I reject that,” Eddy waves a dismissive hand at him. “I’ll be fine squatting here, and maybe I’ll have the room all to myself in blissful silence for once,” he smirks, and _wow_ , that jab to Brett’s inclination to practice at weird hours in a day is very sad. But: they've been roommates since Eddy first entered uni, so surely there's _something_ Brett's doing right, somehow—Eddy isn't exactly shy to speak his mind when something's bothering him.

“You’re telling me you’re _really_ going to spend Christmas drinking yourself to oblivion with—god forbid— _Remy_?” Brett shudders at the mere thought of the violist sophomore weirdly intent on following them everywhere around the con. “You’re better than that, bro.”

“I never said _that_.” Eddy looks as if he’s about to say more, but then stops. “Wait, wait, hold on—back the fuck up. What was that first thing you said?”

"I _said_ : will you please be my fake boyfriend for Christmas?” Brett folds his arms over his chest, pointedly ignoring the befuddled expression on Eddy’s face in favor of explaining what he means. “My parents want me to stay with grandmamma over the holidays, but now she’s got it in her head that we’re secretly a couple or something, so—wait, you remember her, right?”

“You mean Nana Helen?” The question is tinged with nostalgia, and yeah, Brett remembers that she and Eddy had been close during their childhood days. “Your kinda-kooky but also ridiculously rich grandma?”

“The very same,” Brett sniffs; he should probably be insulted with Eddy’s description, but it’s not like it _isn’t_ true, though he’s not about to go and announce it to everyone else either. There’s a reason she had gone into seclusion after her long, illustrious career as an orchestral librarian, and it’s not just because she got tired of polite company.

“Well, how can I forget? You must’ve gotten your kookiness from _somewhere_ , hey?”

“Fucker. But yeah, please? She thinks we’re together, so she wants you to tag along.” Brett pauses, thinks _well, fuck it_ and then continues. “She may have also dangled the promise of giving away some handwritten Mahler, Beethoven, Bach, whoever else you can think of.” It’s a testament to his grandmother’s reputation that Eddy doesn’t immediately try to argue over the validity of that declaration, eyes widening as he looks over to Brett. “For real, bro. Some actual handwritten scores from the composers themselves. Remember that Beethoven string quartet we saw hanging on her wall? That’s the real deal. She knows she’s got leverage, so she’s making me bring you over.”

Truth be told, Brett understands why Helen Lee Yang would think Eddy’s his boyfriend. They’ve been friends since childhood, when a chance meeting at a math tutoring class had cemented an initial recognition that had carried on into their second meeting in the youth orchestra. The rest, as they say, is history; they’ve been almost inseparable ever since. Eddy’s been there for Brett like no one else ever has— _the only one equipped to deal with his bullshit_ , as their friend had so graciously declared three years ago. 

There's only one problem: Brett's never seen Eddy in any other way _but_ platonic, like, _ever_. The string of partners they’ve both acquired over the years should be a neon sign pointing to that, really.

So, at this point, all he can feel is amusement at Eddy’s confusion, his eyebrows climbing to his hairline as he digests Brett’s spiel. “Why would she be offering you those? This is the nerdiest piece of blackmail I’ve ever heard in my _life_.” 

“Hey man, Grandmamma knows how to get what she wants,” Brett shrugs. “We’ll share them, of course. You just need to be my fake boyfriend and come along with me when I visit her. And yeah, okay, I know there’s no world where the words _can you please be my fake boyfriend_ can ever lead to anything good—”

Eddy snorts, moving to get himself a glass of water. “Then why the fuck are you asking _me_ that, then?"

“I’m out of options, bro. This is the cry of a desperate man.” He clasps his hands together, wringing them tight in Eddy’s direction. “Can you please be my fake boyfriend for Christmas?” Brett pauses for a moment, then adds, “it’ll be fun?”

The laugh that burbles out of Eddy’s mouth bounces off against the kitchen tiles. “Idiot. It _might_ be fun, but I don’t think I’m up for a lie _this_ big.” The look he gives Brett is genuinely curious. “I mean, I don’t know about you, man, but I’m sure our friends and family aren’t stupid. _Everyone_ knows how and when we met.” And it’s a little weird, when Eddy just says that all matter-of-factly, but it’s true; it’s a story they’ve always pulled out as an explanation whenever someone comments on how close they are. “How the hell are we going to convince them it somehow took a decade for us to fall for each other?”

Sometimes, the best answer is the simplest one. Brett spreads his arms out wide and grins. “ _Pining_.”

Eddy slaps his face with both hands, muffling a dramatic groan with his palms. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“No, _really_ .” He pauses for a moment in thought, and then flaps his hands in the air. "Anyway, it doesn't matter what they think. It's only for a week in the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere, and then we can say we broke up because of _irreconcilable differences_." Eddy winces at that, but Brett shrugs and continues. "No one has to know, but if you really wanna sell the deal to my grandma, you can break my heart in public. Or maybe it's better the other way around, so she'll think I'm the villain in this equation."

“Dude,” Eddy drawls out the word, disbelief outlining every syllable, and really, Brett doesn’t understand why he’s so hesitant about this. They trust each other, don’t they? Being all lovey-dovey shouldn’t be too hard if it’s all pretend. It takes a while for Eddy to speak again, leaning against the kitchen counter as he swishes the water around his half-empty glass. God, but Brett hates this waiting game. Thankfully, the other man does continue. "You realize your grandma's probably messing with you?"

"Yeah, maybe, but _fuck_ , I want those manuscripts so bad." Okay, so maybe Brett isn't telling him about the Strad that's on the line too, but then it's—well. It's not really something Eddy needs to know about. Not yet, at least. "So? What do you think?"

Eddy stares at him blankly for a moment, and then something in his gaze shifts, an odd gleam in the dark. His limbs loosen out, his tense shoulders fall, and by then, Brett knows he’s already won. “This is a bad idea,” the other man finally tells him after a moment of silence, waggling a stern finger in the air.

“Nah, it’ll be fine." They really will be just _fine_ ; Brett can assure Eddy of that. "And I know you wanna get ahold of those manuscripts just as much as I do."

"Why did we have to grow up to become huge nerds," Eddy complains, but then he’s smiling, so Brett’s not really worried. If anything, he thinks Eddy might even warm up to the idea once it settles firmly inside that great big skull of his. 

"Pleasure doing business with you," Brett declares, an enterprising smirk carving itself deep into the grooves of his mouth. Oh, this is going to be so much _fun_.


	3. CHAPTER TWO

Here’s the thing, the first and foremost thing one needs to know about Eddy Chen: he’s too kind, too willing to please for his own good that it’s probably unhealthy.

"Brett asked me to be his fake boyfriend for Christmas and I said yes," he rattles to his phone with machine-gun speed, and yes, he probably deserves the stunned silence in reply to his sudden outburst.

Here’s the second thing one needs to know about Eddy Chen: he’s maybe kinda a little bit in love with his best friend. Has been for years now. A whole decade, even. There, he’s man enough to admit even  _ that _ to himself, in the deepest pit of his brain where Brett will  _ never _ find out.

“You did  _ what _ ?” The shriek comes unbidden, and really, it's only par for the course for his sister to be shouting at him even from the other side of the world.

“I know, I know,” he tells her wearily, like a soldier about to get dragged out into the war-torn trenches again. “I’m an idiot.”

Call him dramatic, but Eddy’s ready to throw himself off a cliff in the name of emotional self-preservation. He’s really dug a grave for himself here, accepting Brett's offer, and with the plan they're going to enact, Eddy's got no one else to turn to but Belle. He's telling her about it partly because she's going to find out one way or another anyway, and partly because if he doesn't talk to anyone about this, he's very likely to explode.

“Hey bro, I wish I could say otherwise, but then I’d be lying.” Belle's response sounds like it's caught somewhere between laughing and cringing, and Eddy's pretty sure he doesn't appreciate that. "Did you even put up much of a fight at all?"

"Of course I did," Eddy scoffs, but his words sound weak even to his own ears. Belle knows about the crush thing anyway, so. Time to change the subject. “I mean. It might be fun? Nana Helen might give away some original manuscripts to us, and Brett said no one has to know, so we don’t have to do much on the public side. We’ll be fine.”  _ Like we always have been. _

There’s silence from the other side of the line for a moment. “It’s really sad that you think this won't change anything between you two." His sister sighs, and —fine. Okay, it  _ might _ change some things, but it’s nothing Eddy doesn’t know how to handle by now. Probably.  “But anyway, he said no one has to know? What does that mean?”

“That’s it: no one has to know it’s pretend.” For some reason, something about that fact causes an unspeakable amount of disappointment in his gut. Eddy shoves it down and moves onward. “Nana Helen lives in Lamerra, population one-hundred-something, I think. The town’s an isolated bubble in the middle of nowhere in Victoria, so I’m guessing we don’t have to tell anyone else but Nana Helen that we’re, uh,  _ together _ .”

“It doesn’t sound like you’re too approving of that,” says Belle, sounding entirely too smug for her own good.

“Well, whether or not I approve of it, none of that matters.” Eddy raises his gaze to the ceiling, tilting his head back as he considers his next words. “I said yes to the plan, so there’s no backing out of it now. I may be an idiot, but I can handle this.”

“If you say so, brother.” She doesn’t sound particularly convinced. “But you have to tell him at  _ some _ point, you realize?” Eddy breathes out deeply, like a punctured balloon slowly leaking air. “Eddy. You’ve been pining for years now,” Belle tells him, and he’s brought back to that moment of Brett saying the same thing when he explained this whole plan to begin with.  _ Pining _ :  for such a simple word, it carries so much weight. “You have to tell him you love him. What better time and place than this opportunity?”

He swallows down the sudden lump in his throat. “No. There’s no point in telling. He won’t —he won’t ever look at me the way I want him to.”

“But what if he  _ does _ ?” Eddy doesn’t answer that; he  _ can’t _ . Belle hums thoughtfully, seemingly taking a moment to gather her thoughts before she continues. “You never know, little bro. It might just work out. You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

He isn’t quite sure about that, but Belle won’t let him end the call without at least a promise to consider the idea. “Thanks, sis.  I’ll think about it.”

“Good. Take care, Eddy. Let me know how things go. Maybe it’ll help take my mind off stressing over the show here —you know how difficult working with Maestro  De Vries can be, especially when it’s December and the snow keeps you locked in with him. ”

“Sure, sis,” Eddy laughs; no matter where she is in the world, his sister can always make him smile. He’s so grateful for her, and he tells her as much before he has to end the call and go back to the empty silence of his bedroom. Brett isn’t home, so Eddy had taken the chance to make the call in the first place, but the distinct lack of background noise is altogether unsettling. Whatever Eddy might say about Brett’s practice hours, he’s always enjoyed listening in. It just means that the other is nearby, within reach.

He’ll never tell Brett about that, though. He won’t ever let him live it down.

“So you’re really doing this, huh,” Eddy mumbles to himself, pacing back and forth across the room. Honestly, he really  _ could _ just call this whole thing off, no matter what he’s told Belle otherwise. The longer he thinks about it, the more he's starting to realize that the oh-so-precious manuscripts aren't worth throwing himself into the lions' den of his own emotions for. 

But then: his eyes catch on the framed picture of himself and Brett on his nightstand, two boys clinging to each other with bright smiles on their faces, and his chest aches. Brett would do anything for him, he knows this. If Brett had been in his position, Eddy knows his best friend would’ve packed a suitcase by now, fearless and ready to face whatever challenges might come their way with this chaotic deception of a plan.

Brett has always been the braver one of the two of them.

Eddy straightens his shoulders, nods to himself as he makes his decision: he can do this charade. For Brett. Anything for Brett.

(He only hopes it won’t hurt too much when it has to end.)


	4. CHAPTER THREE

"So how do you feel about starting this road trip off with In The Hall of The Mountain King?"

Eddy gives him a devious smirk from where he stands propped up against the car, fiddling with his phone. "You know I won't be able to hold back from jamming to it."

It's four days after the agreement has been made, and it really feels like those four days have gone by way too fast: it's the last afternoon of term exams, and they're already getting prepared to leave for Lamerra. They've both agreed to Brett driving the entire way, because really, he's indebted to Eddy a whole lot, so he should take up most of the burden of this trip on his shoulders.

 _God_ , he's so happy Eddy agreed, though. He doesn't know what he would've done if Eddy hadn't.

"Snacks? Check. Luggage? Check. Road trip music? Check." Brett leans against his seat and sighs, loosening his shoulders to ward off the ache of a whole morning spent lugging bags into the car. "Okay, did we miss anything?"

"Hmmh, don't think so."

"Then get in, sucker. We're going on an adventure."

Eddy shakes his head, and Brett catches him murmuring _idiot_ fondly under his breath as he slides into the passenger seat. _And away we go_ , he thinks, a little whimsical. So sue him—he's fucking happy as a clam. This is gonna turn out _great_.

Soon enough, they get out into the highway, the frenetic notes of Grieg's piece blasting through the speakers loud enough to rattle the little bobblehead composers Brett's got lined up across the dashboard. Eddy's bopping his head to the rhythm of the piece, smile wide and relaxed, and god, but this—this is what a fun road trip feels like.

• • •

It's not until two hours later that Brett begins his masterplan.

"Okay, so we should probably figure out how to act like a couple."

Out of the corner of his eye, the taller man jolts in his seat, surprised. Is it too early of a question to pose? Before Brett can second guess himself, however, Eddy shakes his head and laughs. "Ah, well—sure, what did you have in mind?"

"Let's start with something more casual, yeah?" Brett moves his left hand between them and splays it out wide for Eddy to take. Then: a wild smirk makes itself known on his lips. "Hold my hand, please, _baby_?"

"The fuck." Eddy snorts, clearly torn between amusement and disgust, and Brett laughs, delighted. "Keep your hands on the wheel, you lunatic."

"Not until you hold it first, sweetcakes."

"God, we need to work on your pet names." Brett doesn't even have to look to know Eddy's rolling his eyes at him, but hey, if it takes goading him for this to work, then Brett's not about to complain. He wiggles his hands again, a clear invitation, and after a few seconds of mock-sighing on his best friend's part, Eddy finally takes the bait and reaches out halfway.

Eddy's hand in his is warm and calloused, strong and dependable—he's got musician's hands. Brett's gaze flickers to their entwined fingers for a moment like it can't help itself, but then he successfully pulls it away before Eddy notices.

His own hand feels too-warm, suddenly.

It shouldn't really be feeling _nice_ , but it somehow _does_.

"So?" The taller man tilts his head as he examines their shared grasp, clearly oblivious to the confusion swirling around Brett's mind like a burgeoning snow storm. Not that _Eddy_ would know anything about it, of course, but Brett's feeling a little out-of-sorts right now, so whatever. "This work for you?"

It more than does, but he's not about to say _that_. "Yeah." Brett nods, slowly withdrawing his hand away back to himself and trying his best to make it look like he hadn't been _reluctant_ about it. Shit, that's such a weird thought. "Be still my beating heart," he adds dryly to cover up his momentary stumble, watching Eddy smirk like the Cheshire Cat.

When Brett _really_ thinks about it, Eddy doesn't look half bad at all. Ask anyone around on the con, for example: they'd be ecstatic just to get to _look_ at Eddy, for fuck's sake. His propensity for v-necks aside, the man exudes calm and confidence with every action—muscled and long-limbed with features so unfairly striking, it's almost unreal.

Well. Not that Brett is attracted to that sort of thing anyway.

Shaking himself free from the sudden awkwardness that thought had brought to his composure, Brett clears his throat and throws a smile over to the man in question. The unsettled feeling in his gut makes him a little bit reckless. When he opens his mouth, the words that come are not exactly what he'd planned for in the first place. "Okay, next item on the list—let's take a picture together! Grandmamma will love it."

Eddy raises an eyebrow at him even as he digs through his pockets for his phone. "What, like now?" He holds it up to take a selfie of the two of them, but Brett has other plans before that, _sorry, Eddy._ He tugs him close, slings an arm around Eddy's shoulder and lands a sloppy kiss on his cheek just as the shutter clicks.

Eddy flings himself back towards the car window so fast, Brett's half-worried he'll get whiplash. And yeah, he had expected that reaction to happen, but not like _that._

"Sorry," he offers, because that wasn't very good, in hindsight, and. Fuck, but that whole thing had been a mistake, huh? _Goddammit._ "Sorry, I was just thinking—I'm so sorry—"

"That's," and it's here that Eddy sighs, feeling uncomfortably too close to a punch in the gut, "it's fine. Just lemme know the plan next time, 'kay?"

Brett nods wordlessly, dragging his gaze back to the road. Guilt curls insidiously in his gut. It's not a very good feeling to have. "Well? What do you think?" Perhaps a bit of levity can move them past that whole mess. He gently nudges Eddy's arm, prompting him to look over the photo they took. "Boyfriend material?"

Raised eyebrows greet him in reply. "You wish. But—this looks good." There's a slight pause, almost nonexistent. "Looks convincing."

"Really?" Thank god. "Great, then! C'mon, post it on Facebook and tag me. She's definitely gonna see that. Bonus points for us already."

Eddy looks over to him then, something unreadable sparking in his gaze, but Brett studiously ignores the gleam in those dark eyes and barrels on forward. There's no time to hash out whatever's going on in his best friend's mind right now. _Later then_ , he makes a mental note to himself.

In the end, they settle for a post with their selfie and the simple caption of "Me and my best guy." That should work just fine.


	5. CHAPTER FOUR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry it took so long, but yay #2set2mil <3

Eddy's phone is exploding, shaking wild like an earthquake. It's never really done that before, aside from maybe holidays and emergencies, and he's kinda concerned.

"Oh, don't mind it," Brett tells him from behind the stack of biscuits he's rummaging through, calm as anything even when discussing his best friend's possible humiliation at the hands of the general public. Eddy frowns at the screen for a moment before pocketing the mobile, goes back to studying the rows of potato chips in front of him, if only to take his mind off the issue at hand. So: Brett had suggested a photo together for his grandmother's sake, and then had promptly scared the living daylights out of Eddy by yanking him into a sorta-kiss on the cheek, but not really, because he had been an unknowing participant for it? _Anyway_.

(There's the niggling feeling that maybe Brett had felt the urge to do such a thing exactly because he might've _wanted_ to in the first place, and wait, _no_ , Eddy's _not_ going to go there. There lies the way to madness.)

Thank god Brett's remembered to fiddle with the privacy settings of the post so only family can see it. If that photo goes public—well. He doesn't even want to _think_ about the repercussions. They're enough to give him nightmares.

Belle's gonna _kill_ him, for starters. She's the type to smack a person while laughing, after all, and his sister's got a mean left hook.

"Hey, you look like you just watched a small animal get run over." Brett nudges his shoulder, brings him back to the present. He realizes he's been standing there frozen for a good thirty seconds. _Shit_. "What's wrong? Did the Pringles do anything to you?"

"Hilarious," he shakes his head, reaching forward to take the aforementioned chips in hand. "All the Pringles has ever done to me is make me hungry. So I'm taking them."

Brett snorts. "I like your conquering spirit, hey? I'll get me some of that too." He watches as the shorter man takes a few more Pringles cans and then waltzes over to the cash register. Ridiculous, that man, truly. It's disgusting, how adorable he is.

It's almost _domestic_ to engage in such a mundane thing together, but Eddy finds himself enjoying every second of this road trip so far, even as he is also simultaneously teetering on the brink of an abyss. _Everything_ he does feels like a keg of gunpowder about to explode, hyper-focused and hyper-sensitive—the phantom pressure of Brett's gaze on him pressing down with the weight of a fourteen wheeler truck. Fuck, that's dramatic, but he doesn't really care; it's the damned truth.

He's afraid that at some point, Brett will take one good look at him and just _know_.

"Hey slowpoke, you coming or what?"

It's a dilemma for later. Eddy steps away from the store shelves and tells himself he's enjoying this for the millionth time. He's not exactly sure he's succeeding so far, but it's the thought that counts.

• • •

They stop by a cheap motel, check into a room with twin beds that barely manage to fit Eddy's tall frame in them. He's about to make a joke about how Brett's height fits the bed quite nicely, but one look at his friend's raised eyebrows, and it's enough to send him into peals of laughter instead.

Truth be told, he'd been a little wary of the idea of sharing a room during this whole fake dating thing, let alone the possibility of there being only one bed when they get to Nana Helen's home. It's what happens in _all_ the romance stories, not that Eddy's ever going to admit to reading one. Of course not. He's only—being cautious. Genre-savvy. Something like that.

"Ah, god, I'm so tired," Brett moans, falling down onto the blankets hard enough to rattle the bed frame, and it's a testament to Eddy's frazzled state that he jolts at the sound, mind immediately flinging itself into the gutter and all the things that sort of noise would normally entail. _Goddamnit._

"Thank you for your service," his mouth chatters away for him, and thank the heavens making banter involves muscle memory by now, or he'd be in a lot of trouble. He should be trying his best to make everything feel normal, not the other way around. Brett's going to notice if he does otherwise, and that is _not good, no siree._ Eddy sits himself down on the covers of his own bunk and stares at the floor. "I should've switched places with you from time to time, sorry—"

A laugh emerges from the other bed. "Nah, it's fine. Anything for you, bro. Thanks for coming with me." The declaration hits somewhere deep in Eddy's chest: kitchen knife to butter. It's all he can do to keep a straight face. "Probably gonna be indebted to you for life."

"Hey, that's what best friends do," Eddy replies, because he's _such a good best friend._

• • •

They're getting ready for bed when the brilliant idea pops up in Eddy's head. _Brilliant_ , being the relative term. His sister would've called it _stupid,_ but whatever, his sister isn't here.

"Don't you want to," the words curl on his tongue like sour milk, "I dunno— _practice_?"

Brett raises an eyebrow. "Practice?"

"Y'know. What all the couples always do." What all the _real_ couples always do, and _wow, keep hurting yourself, Edward._

His question is met with thoughtful silence, and then: "Oh, you mean kissing? Or the other thing with the horizontal limbo—"

"No thanks," Eddy immediately blurts out, and for some blessed reason, he manages not to sound like a man who's thought about that very thing a million times over. He sounds quite the opposite, in fact: dismissive, indifferent, cool. Yes, that's good; anything but Brett finding out he means otherwise. "I'd rather switch to viola than do that with _you_."

Brett winces dramatically, placing a hand over his heart in such a flamboyant way, Eddy can tell he doesn't really take offense. "Ouch, man. That really hurt me. Like, really deep down."

"You'll get over it." He rolls his eyes, waves a hand in his friend's direction. "I meant kissing, mate. Won't Nana notice if we kiss like we don't know how to?"

"Hey! I'll have you know that I'm a fantastic kisser, just saying," Brett smirks, a glint of shimmering club lights in his dark gaze, and no, Eddy doesn't really doubt that at all. Even now, he remembers the dazed expressions, the flushed cheeks, the ravenous looks. Brett Yang is definitely a fantastic kisser and he's got a long line of admirers to show for it. That doesn't in any way relate to the acidic feeling in his gut whenever Eddy thinks about it, not really.

Oh, who is he kidding? He's jealous as fuck.

Blissfully oblivious to Eddy's inner plight, Brett waltzes over to the bathroom, his voice echoing across the white floor tiles. "It'll be fine! We'll know how to act it out, and I'm a master at these things, y'know that. _Everyone_ knows that."

And _god_ , but the way Brett says this, all suave confidence, makes something in Eddy snap.

"Oh? Maybe you're just scared you won't live up to your reputation where I'm concerned," he smirks, a confrontational note in his tone that he's sure Brett doesn't miss—he never really can resist a challenge when it's right in front of him. True enough, his friend pokes his head out the bathroom door, a glint in his eyes. Eddy's mouth continues to rattle out words unwittingly as the other man stalks forward in his direction. "Don't you think that I—"

There's no forewarning. In one swift motion, Brett leans down and kisses him, all perfunctory and quick. Eddy doesn't even have the opportunity to relish the feel of chapped lips against his and the smell of peppermint mouthwash before Brett's already moving away, cool as a fucking cucumber, _what the hell._ It takes a considerable amount of willpower to school his expression to anything _but_ shell-shocked astonishment.

When Eddy's gaze finally flickers up to catch his best friend's own, Brett bats his eyelashes at him, something like victory in the curve of his mouth. "Yeah? Not really worried."

It feels like he's lost something, here. Eddy clears his throat and buries his head under the blankets, his lips buzzing with awareness.

Fuck it _all_.


	6. CHAPTER FIVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry it took so long again ; - ; but hopefully you still enjoy it! patience with me, please <3

"Well, that's a sight for sore eyes."

God, the dramatics of it all. Brett rolls his eyes, following Eddy's line of sight where it's aimed at the traffic signs signalling their approach to Lamerra. There's an endless stretch of empty landscape on either side of the road, save for a few trees dotting the snowflake-sheet ground, and fine, he can understand where the complaint is coming from. Still, he's curious. "Yeah? How so?"

"I was getting tired of looking at snow," Eddy says, and _what?_ That's such an alien thing to say. He _will_ judge his friend for it, thanks.

"Bro, who the fuck gets tired of snow? It's exciting, it's wet—"

"Oh yeah, I'm _definitely_ interested in exciting, wet things," Eddy deadpans, and Brett can't help himself: he throws his head back against the headrest and laughs so hard, he thinks he might have torn a muscle in his stomach or something. His hands slide off the wheel for a few seconds, but they are promptly slapped back to their rightful position by the other man. "Mind the road, you idiot!"

He's gasping for breath, air just suddenly _gone_ , but somehow, he manages to blurt out proper words. "Sorry—sorry! Oh my god, you're such a bastard." Brett shakes his head, grinning from ear to ear. "I'm still _so_ fucking happy you're here."

Eddy looks at him, then. He's looking at him like he's never seen him before, and that's—that's not disconcerting _at all_ , nope. Brett manages not to twitch at the sudden pause before Eddy smirks and turns his head away. "Yeah, yeah, I'm amazing. Now, if you could kindly _not_ kill us before we get there? I didn't go all this way with you to get thrown into a ditch."

The smile on his face refuses to fade anytime soon, and so he allows it to stay. He probably looks like a loon, but who the fuck cares.

• • •

When Brett had been a child, he had wondered about Lamerra. There's something mystical about the town, almost like a world beyond the touch of the passage of time, and now that he's returned after about a year or so, it still looks exactly the same as when he had last left it back then. There's the same old library, the same old cafe, the same old public park. It's a little weird, to say the least.

His confusion must've been plain as day on his face, because the next thing he knows, Eddy's tapping his shoulder with a concerned look. "What's up?"

"Nothing, it's just—it's like nothing's changed 'round here."

"Maybe that's a good thing?" Eddy shrugs, turning his gaze back to his phone. "Some things are better off staying the same way they are. Feels safer that way, I suppose."

(It's as if they're having two different conversations. He doesn't really know what to say to _that_.)

Brett shakes off the uncertain feeling that threatens to grip him and mirrors Eddy's shrug. "Maybe. At least I still know where to get my experimental coffee fix," he chuckles, waving at a particular coffeeshop as they pass by. The golden lettering of the ornate sign spells _Gypsy Commons_ , and despite the uncommon moniker, Brett thinks it fits Lamerra's vibe well, with the whole artsy, unearthly style of the place. "They brew the weirdest flavors, but they're all so fucking good."

As expected, the mere mention of coffee rouses Eddy into a look of interest. Of course it would. " _Bro_. We gotta check it out sometime this week," he says, and yeah, Brett's got no complaints there.

"It's a date, then." He grins, relishing the monotonous _hah_ Eddy sends his way.

The sun is just beginning to fall behind the white-peaked horizon when they pull up into an empty path of patchwork stones and bricks, a stark contrast to the snow-covered roads they've taken to get here. The sprawling mansion looms in the distance, its facade stately and ornate but ultimately—kinda lonely. Brett knows his grandmother can afford caretakers for her estate, but aside from these fleeting moments of human interaction, she lives alone. It's a life he can't imagine could be anything close to _happy_ , but she seems content enough to live in solitude.

Brett ponders this as he drives the car down the driveway, coming to a stop just beyond the front steps to the door. When he turns the ignition off, Eddy taps his outstretched arm. "Uh, are you sure we can park here?"

That startles him into a laugh. "Yeah, dude, don't worry about it. It's not like this is a heritage site or whatever."

"Oh? Could've fooled me," Eddy smirks, looking up at the mansion with a twinkle in his eyes. _Smartass_.

They take turns taking their luggage out of the car, and just as they've finished dumping all their stuff onto the stones, the double doors of the mansion open with a decisive _creak_.

It's upon sight of Helen Lee Yang—a tiny woman with white hair and wrinkly hands and the most piercing gaze he knows—that Brett suddenly falters. The ground feels unsteady, his world buckling under the weight that _this_ : this is real. They're actually doing this. They're actually going to fake dating each other and lie to his grandmother's _face_.

_What the hell are you doing, Brett Yang?_

He takes a nervous step backwards, earning a curious look from his best friend. "I think this isn't such a good idea."

Eddy gapes at him like he's insane, and _god_ , maybe he is, just a little. "We're right at the fucking doorstep, and you're thinking about this _now_?"

Brett shakes his head, shrugs helplessly. He's only human; he's damn well entitled to a little doubt here and there. And okay, so _maybe_ he's coming to realize that lying to his grandmother really is a bad decision—

The downward spiral of his thoughts suddenly comes to a screeching halt as Eddy loops an arm around his waist, tugs him up against his hip. "C'mon, babe," he drawls, loud enough for Helen to hear, and _what the fuck_. "You'll freeze to death out here if we don't get you inside soon. Let's go."

And yeah, okay, but Brett _likes_ getting manhandled. Eddy _knows_ this. It's fucking _bribery_ , is what it is, but Brett can't find it in himself to complain, not when it's distracting him enough for his friend to start dragging him in Helen's direction.

(He probably won't be freezing to death anytime soon, though. Eddy's skin is a furnace, warmth radiating even through their respective layers of clothing. Weird.)

Brett's also stunned enough to stay silent for a few seconds, and then: "You dreamboat."

"Shut it." Eddy huffs, face half-buried in Brett's hair as they walk forward together, voice low and meant for his ears alone. "This is for the manuscripts, right? We made it this far. We can do this."

Ah. Right. He'd almost forgotten about _that_ , huh.

Well, now Brett _has_ to go through with this. He'd promised Eddy, after all. That thought pushes him to keep his feet moving, two steps in time with Eddy's one.

When they finally reach the threshold of the steps leading up to the front porch, a wave of nostalgia hits him, almost enough to send him to his knees. Brett closes his eyes, remembers the smell of freshly-cut grass and royal bluebells, the taste of anzac biscuits and almonds, the feel of weathered stone and polished wood. This is the world that had taught him to fall in love with music, guided by his grandmother's steady hand. This is the world that had nurtured his love for his violin and his craft, and with the memories that the house inspires comes the flood of emotions, warm and all-encompassing. It washes over all his fears and doubts, sweeps them away into the void.

(But the guilt—the guilt stays.)

"I'm home," Brett manages to smile, allows his grandmother to pepper his cheeks with kisses when she moves forward to greet them. Eddy lets him go, then, and he sags his weight onto the old woman without really meaning to. Brett's _not_ taken aback by the sudden disappearance of warmth, of course not; he's only a little surprised.

"Ach. You are growing sentimental." Helen tsks at him, but the adoring smile on her face belies her teasing words. "This is _my_ home, Little Yang, and you are my guests." She pauses for a moment, eyebrows climbing to her hairline as she turns her gaze towards his best friend. Eddy coughs non-discreetly behind his closed fist.

 _Oh_ , an introduction. Okay, he can do that.

"Grandmamma," Brett begins with a slight tremor to his words that he furiously tries to tamper down, "this is Eddy. My _boyfriend._ "

If Helen has noticed anything about the emphasis on that last word, she doesn't show it, opting instead to peer up owlishly at Eddy from where he stands a fair few feet taller than her. The side by side comparison is a little funny, and yeah, it helps to make his smile a little more genuine. Two of his favorite people, here together with him. Who wouldn't be ecstatic at _that_?

"I know who he is, silly boy," Helen replies at last, beckoning Eddy to stoop down so she can pat him on the cheek. "You are growing into a giant, Edward. This is very good, but you are also too tall. How will Brett reach you now?"

"Well, I'd happily lean down for him whenever he wants me to, Nana." Brett raises an eyebrow at this, meeting Eddy's amused gaze over the sound of his grandmother's chortles. What a smooth fucker. Where is this suaveness coming from? He needs some of _that_ to survive this damn week.

"Charmer. Oh, I will ask Charles to take your bags upstairs," Helen murmurs, and Brett recognizes the individual as his grandmother's young errand boy, only recently acquired. He's never met the man, but he figures he'll like him already, if only for the fact that Charles is taking care of Helen's needs. "Have you two eaten yet? Shall I call for food and we can eat in the dining hall? It's newly-renovated, you know. I would like to have your opinions on the wallpaper."

Ah, god—Brett can sense the approach of an incoming familial interrogation when it happens, and _no thank you_ , he's way too drained to keep his lies straight where his fake relationship with Eddy is concerned. Time to make a hasty escape. "Can we, uh, retire for the evening, Ah Ma? I drove all the way here and I'm dead on my feet right now. I'm not really—I'm not up for any more than sleeping at the moment."

"He's feeling really tired," Eddy adds in support of his plea, rubbing small circles on Brett's shoulders that's equal parts relaxing and distracting, weirdly enough. "Maybe we can have breakfast together tomorrow instead, Nana."

Helen looks back and forth between the two of them with an unreadable look, and then she caves. "Ach, all right. Go on along then, the two of you. Good night!"

Brett's not exactly running up the stairs as he leaves with Eddy in tow, but it's a near thing.

• • •

Well, okay, there it is—a single bed in the room his grandmother has assigned to them, and it's most definitely because Helen thinks they're comfortable enough to sleep together because they're dating. Funnily enough, his grandmother's got far more liberal views than most of his other extended family members, who'll never leave him and any romantic partner alone together for more than ten seconds.

The look on Eddy's face isn't exactly helping matters; it's as if he's just witnessed someone smash his violin, which is honestly overdramatic, even for him.

Well—it's not _that_ bad a situation, is it?

Brett snaps out of his stupor and clears his throat to catch his friend's attention. "So, just like when we were kids, huh?" They've slept on the same bed together before back in their childhood days, but ever since they've gotten older, dating around and screwing around, they've never done it again. To sleep with someone is to be vulnerable, and for all that they're attached at the hip ever since primary school, there's still some walls between them that aren't exactly the most transparent of barriers. "I'll take the right side, you take the left?"

"Yeah." Eddy continues to stare at the floor and then suddenly shakes his head. "Actually, no."

 _What?_ "No?"

Eddy stalks forward, begins throwing cushions off the bed and onto the wolf rug in front of the fireplace. "I'm sleeping on the floor. Go take the bed."

"The fuck are you saying? If _anyone's_ sleeping on the bed, it's gonna be _you_. You're the guest." Brett grabs a pillow and brandishes it towards his friend like a weapon. "But look, we should probably be sharing the bed. It's more practical, and you'll get a crick in your neck if you sleep on the floor."

"But there's not enough space—"

"The bed looks big enough for a _foursome_ , you idiot. I'm gonna smack you with this pillow, just see if I don't."

They glare at each other for a few moments before Eddy sighs, waves his arms up in surrender. "Fine, let's share the bed. I _will_ kick you if you steal all the blankets, though."

He snorts, because okay, fine: he's known to be a blanket hog. Fair is fair. "That's understandable, so go ahead. As long as we're both comfortable, because seriously, we damn well deserve it after that trip." A slight pause while they construct a wall of pillows to separate their respective sides of the bed. "Also, don't worry, I'm not gonna jump you while you're sleeping or anything. In case you were worried," Brett jokes, but it falls flat even to his own ears. It sounds way too embittered, which isn't what he's trying to aim for, but hey, what can you do.

 _I'd rather switch to viola than do that with you_ , Eddy had said, and despite his joking dismissal back then, Brett really had felt just the teensiest bit hurt. Just a little bit. It's ridiculous, but—it's _sacrilege_ , is what it is, and to think that Eddy's willing to go that far just to avoid any real sort of _anything_ with Brett beyond faking it is—well. It bothers him more than he'd like to admit, even to himself.

Thank god Eddy just laughs at him, after a moment of pin-drop silence. "Thanks for your concern, but my virtue isn't what I'm worried about."

"Then what _are_ you worried about?"

Eddy stills, his muscles tensing as he seems to consider his words. Brett finds himself idly appreciating the firm lines of his friend's back and then mentally smacking himself on the forehead, because _what the hell?_ That's kinda weird. "Trying to lie all week, I guess," the taller man finally answers, his face all scrunched up.

"Look, we're going to be just fine."

"Yeah, I hope so." Eddy smiles at him, waving towards the bed as he moves to the bathroom. "Go to sleep, Brett."

All Brett can do is nod in reply and let himself fall onto the sheets. He's so tired, he just blacks out the moment his head hits the pillow.

(He isn't awake to notice the longing look that makes a home for itself in Eddy's eyes. He isn't awake to notice the way Eddy positions himself right up against the pillow wall, fingers inches away from his own, warm and wanting.)


	7. CHAPTER SIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry; it's been way too long since the last update >.< but here it is finally! <3

Eddy gets very little sleep that night.

When he wakes, it’s to his eyelashes sticking together, throat coarse like sandpaper, and the early morning sunlight streaming through the high-arched windows. The coverlet is soft under his limbs. There’s a blanket keeping the chilly bite of winter away from him and—

—the warm, dozing body next to him.

_Brett._

And so, yeah, he’s suddenly mere seconds away from a minor panic attack. Eddy breathes in deep, settles the wild animal that’s burrowed itself within his chest: _calm, calm._ It won’t do him any good to lose his mind right now—he hasn’t even had breakfast yet.

As if to punctuate his line of thought, his stomach grumbles. Great. Well, he’s not about to go stomping around on his own downstairs. He needs to rouse his companion, no matter how hard it is to do so.

“Hey.” He nudges a soft-sleeved shoulder peeking out from under the blanket. Their Great Wall of Pillows has survived the night unconquered, aside from the wayward arm Brett’s flung over it, inches away from his own. It doesn’t mean anything, _aha_ , whatever. Eddy valiantly resists the urge to run his fingers over that exposed patch of skin and pokes Brett again. “Bro. Wake up.”

“Nngh?”

Fuck, but he’s adorable. “Wake up.”

“Don’t wanna.” Brett still hasn’t surfaced from the sea of blankets. Eddy’s stomach growls again. Insistently. “Go away.”

And just like that, the dark cloud of anxiety begins to ebb away. Even in this charade, he’s still the same old Eddy, and Brett’s still the annoying fucker he’s fallen for. They can make it through this, together. A smile blooms on his mouth unbidden, petal-soft, even as he goes to jab his cold fingers into Brett’s abdomen. “Come on, Brett. Don’t make me face Nana Helen alone.”

That does the trick. Brett explodes out of the covers like a speeding rocket careening out of its launchpad. “Ah, _shit_ ,” he draws the curse out, voice still worn and rough from sleep. Eddy watches on in equal parts amusement and attraction, damn it all. “I almost forgot about that, sorry—I’m up, I’m up.”

“It’s all good. Come on, before my gut starts barking at me again,” he complains. Brett pats him like a child praising a puppy and rolls out of the bed, grinning.

Eddy’s skin feels warm all morning.

• • •

All things considered, he adores Helen Yang’s home. Nostalgic blast from the past aside, it’s got a rustic, cosy vibe to it that’s not really something one encounters when living in the city, and god, but Eddy misses the easygoing nature of the countryside house. It’s a wonderful home, truly. He loves every inch of it.

“How is the wallpaper?”

Not the wallpaper, though—that thing can go. His eyes sting every time they land on the disgusting olive green shade, and the tangy ornate designs aren’t helping matters at all. Still: “It’s very nice, Nana. Very, uh, artsy.”

Judging by the old woman’s stare, though, he thinks he hasn’t gotten away with the lying. “Ach. I just like very green things. Like a garden. Gardens are very beautiful, yes?”

“Don’t listen to her, Eddy,” Brett intervenes, laughing around his mouthful of scrambled egg. It’s disgusting that he still finds the man attractive with rice spilling out of his lips, but fuck, this is his life. “She’s out to try and persuade you to like it, but I know _you_ know it looks horrible, so nah, don’t fall for it.”

Loud chuckles ring in his ears, and Eddy can’t help but join in. It comes eagerly, this laughter; eating good food surrounded by good people makes it all too easy. He can’t help but notice the way Brett’s relaxed in this place, like a heavy burden that’s been hanging on his shoulders at the con had lifted the second he stepped into his grandmother’s presence. Eddy might still be feeling guilty about all the lying fuckery they’re doing, but now he doesn’t feel very regretful about coming here to see his best friend leave all his worries away by the door.

“Well, enough about my apparent bad taste in house apparel,” Helen sniffs, mock-wounded, and then takes a dainty sip of her teacup. “So. I am curious. Would you mind if I ask little questions?”

This: this is the part they’ve rehearsed. Brett’s grilled him over and over with questions about their fake cover story, training him like a drill master for this very moment.

_When did you fall in love with him?_

_The day he skipped a concert he was supposed to play in to go watch mine, the idiot. That's when I realized I was in love with my best friend, no matter how stupid he is._

_Who made the first move?_

_Brett did. He says he got too impatient waiting for me to see the light, or whatever that means._

_Who said I love you first?_

_Me. And I’d tell him that everyday, even if he grows tired of it._

(He’d put more of his heart into answering if all the things he’s been saying are true _._ )

(He fell in love with Brett way before that concert ever happened.)

But then, the old woman smiles, puts down her cup in its saucer and leans forward. “There are plenty of other fish in the sea around you, Edward. I use the Facebook, you know,” she tells him, and _oh shit, his pictures with his exes._ He hadn’t thought to delete them or hide them at all. “What made you stay with Brett, stupid boy that he is, when there are plenty of pretty girls and boys lining up for you?”

Silence. Brett looks seconds away from throwing himself over the table to intervene, and as hilarious as that mental image is, Eddy’s not about to let his mask slip. “Well, it’s because I love him.” It feels like an incomplete answer, and so he takes a deep breath, pulls an answer from the depths of his heart. “I love him, flaws and all. He understands me when no one else could, so really—I’m absolutely lucky to be with him.”

Eddy’s telling the truth, no beating around the bush about it, and so it comes out absolutely sincere. Brett’s eyes flicker towards him for a brief second, though, and _that_ confuses him. What’s so wrong about that confession? Doesn’t he _want_ this to sound genuine?

Blithely ignoring Brett’s sudden need to bury his face in his coffee mug, Helen leans over the table to pat Eddy’s cheek fondly. “Such a sweet boy. I think my idiot grandson is the lucky one to be with you,” she smirks,

“Ah ha. I’d have to disagree with that, Nana,” Eddy grins, finding sure footing in the conversation again, “on everything _but_ the idiocy.”

“Yes, yes, Brett Yang is an idiot, moving _on_ ,” Brett complains, breathing out what Eddy knows is a sigh of relief at the sight of his grandmother’s amused grin.

There are no prying questions after that.

(Deep down, he’s a teensy bit disappointed. It’s worth the anxiety of impromptu interviews, seeing the flush on Brett’s face behind that coffee mug.)

• • •

Nana Helen tells them to make the most of the afternoon and explore some sites Lamerra has to offer. Which is, to say, not very much, but they’re determined to make the best of things, and so he and Brett head out into the cold bundled up to their necks and drive off in the direction of Gypsy Commons.

They haven’t gotten inside away from the snow yet when they’re stopped at the door by a rosy-cheeked woman, laughter lines wrinkling around her mouth when she smiles in greeting. “Brett? Is that you?”

To his credit, Brett immediately snaps out of his surprise and grins. “Hey, long time no see, Naomi! Oh yeah, this is—”

“Your boyfriend?” The redhead laughs, missing the way the two men flinch. “Yeah, I know! Grandma Yang kinda told everyone her grandson and his partner would be around for the holidays for a visit.”

Fuck, they’re already known around town as a couple? So much for laying off on the charade only when Nana Helen isn’t around. Eddy’s never going to have a blissful moment of peace for _days_.

Even so, he’s not about to be stopped from reuniting with the caffeine love of his life, and so Eddy smiles brightly at the woman with all the friendly energy he can muster. “Well then, I’d love to buy my boyfriend a coffee. What would you recommend?” When she smiles back, he counts it as a win; when they push through the doors to an artsy, bohemian-inspired interior, he counts it as a triumph.

“This cafe looks fucking awesome,” he whispers to the other man, trailing behind Naomi as she moves to the counter. The floor-to-wall windows stream faint sunlight into the building, bouncing off of opaque glass tables and polished wooden chairs. There are throw pillows _everywhere_ , and yeah, he could definitely see why Brett had sung high praises about the coffeeshop in the first place.

Brett snorts, clearly used to the scenery at this point. “Told you.” After a few minutes spent ordering some interesting coffee orders—i _t’s a hazelnut honey lemon what-now?_ —they appoint a corner cubicle for their own, making themselves comfortable against the cerulean cushions as they gaze into the winter wonderland beyond the glass. People-watching is the best sort of activity to pursue where they’re situated, and the town folk walking around outside on the streets prove to be fascinating subjects.

It feels—well. It feels like a date of sorts. Eddy’s _not_ about to point that out, though.

A few minutes pass by in comfortable silence, and then Brett’s lips tug into a frown. When his gaze refuses to lift from the whipped cream tower in his coffee, Eddy gently knocks his foot against the other’s shin, getting his attention. “You okay?”

“Ah—yeah,” comes the quiet reply. “Just kinda feels weird, actually being in the moment where I have to call you my boyfriend, I guess. No offense, by the way; it’s not you.” Brett smiles cheekily, and yeah, that helps as a distraction from the sinking feeling in Eddy’s chest. “And, well, y’know, it’s been a while since I’ve gone out with anyone, so it might be that too. Just feels _weird_.”

Eddy takes a sip from his coffee to avoid saying anything. He’s not quite sure how to respond.

Thankfully, the other man keeps going. “By the way, I didn’t know Grandmamma was gonna tell everyone around about us being boyfriends and shit. Sorry. Now we’re gonna have to be on guard the entire time.”

“That’s okay.” In a sudden burst of courage, Eddy places his hand over Brett’s on the table and bats his eyelashes teasingly. “I’m here for you, _sweetcakes_.”

Brett explodes into laughter, drawing the attention of the few patrons scattered around the cafe, and try as he might, Eddy can’t quite hide his wide grin. “You fucker! Who said we had to work on my pet names?”

“Hey, I’m just taking from what you—”

“E-excuse me,” suddenly comes out of nowhere, and the two men turn their heads towards the voice. A young boy stands before them, red hair peeking out from under his beanie as he stares at them for a moment. Brett and Eddy stare back.

“Yeah? What do you need?”

The kid bites his upper lip, looking as if he’s steeling himself before he speaks again. “My mum says I could ask people to play with me,” he waves a hand over to the smiling redhead over at the counter, and oh, okay. He’d been worried about feeling jealous over Brett’s familiarity with her for like half a second earlier. “So, um. Wanna play with me in the snow?”

• • •

“How did we get here again?”

They’re walking through the snow, shivering minutely as they trail behind the boy running towards the open field across the road. He doesn’t even really know Naomi yet, and already, he thinks she’s a grand evil mastermind for putting them in this situation. Kids are annoying and ridiculous, and he’s got way too little patience for them.

“C’mon, man.” Brett nudges his shoulder. “We might as well be friendly while we’re here, hey?”

Well, they could be friendly, but Eddy’s not sure he has it in him to be accommodating so quickly. It doesn’t help that as soon as he and Brett finish a wonky-looking snowman for the little boy, they get mobbed by other children in the neighborhood looking for big, strong playmates. Naomi’s son introduces himself as Steve, and the other kids take this as an opportunity to yell out their own names. _Millie, Jack, Noah, Charlotte, Kelly, Lucas._ There’s no fucking way he’s going to memorize all of those immediately.

“I’m not good with kids,” he tells Brett, just to get that out there. He has to know Eddy’s got nothing in mind to entertain these tiny creatures.

“What, and you think _I_ am?” The other man shakes his head, turning his back on the children as he makes a woebegone expression right in Eddy’s face. “We’re just here to babysit or something for a while, so. We don’t have to join the—”

 _Smack!_ Snow falls off Brett’s shoulder in clumps: the telltale aftermath of a snowball throw. Giggles ring out over the clearing as Steve rubs his hands together, a teasing grin plastered firmly on his face. “Come on, old man! Are you just going to let some babies run all over ya?”

The thing is: Brett Yang is incredibly competitive. Eddy’s seen him in rhythm classes and theory exams and mock performances, coming out on top every time no matter what it takes. He doesn’t think that competitive streak extends to kids, but _then_.

Brett picks up a handful of snow and stalks forward, crafting it into a ball in his hands with a wicked smile playing on his mouth, and _oh shit_. "Ho ho ho, _bitches_."

"Please don't," Eddy laughs, but then the other man is off like a bullet, weaving through the tiny bodies as he throws snowball after snowball in a relentless barrage. The sounds of childish screaming fill the air, loud enough that several passersby are beginning to stop and stare. He’d be embarrassed, but the sunny grin on his friend’s face, warm enough to melt snowflakes, is worth all the amused, knowing looks thrown their way.

 _This is what Brett Yang would look like as a father,_ comes the stray thought, and Eddy immediately pushes it away. _Shut the fuck up, brain._

He opts instead to trudge along the sidelines and make snowballs for his best friend to throw at some kids, and when Brett comes out on top as he always does, the wet smack of lips on Eddy’s cheek doesn’t faze him at all. Let them stare; for now, Brett is _his_ , and Eddy’s all too willing to be known as Brett’s, too.


	8. CHAPTER SEVEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope the events of this chapter make up for the long wait! <3

When Brett opens his eyes to a new day, it's to a headache and an empty bed.

Well, okay, so maybe he doesn't realize he's alone yet, not for a good long while. He hasn't played around in the snow nor has he done any sort of strenuous activity for some time, and now, his body's complaining at every twitch of his muscles, every flex of his limbs. Brett twists and turns on the bed for a moment, tangling himself in the blankets, when he realizes the other side of the pillow wall is empty.

Eddy isn't in the room. Ignoring the sinking feeling that's made a home in his stomach, he gets up and goes in search of him.

The halls are silent, his steps echoing across the wooden floor as he makes his way through the house, down the stairs and across the foyer. He waves at his grandmother through the window as he passes by, the old woman tending to the flowerbed she's taken a claim over as her personal project. He catches a glimpse of ginger hair turning a corner further ahead. Probably Charles, or something.

When Brett arrives at the kitchen, Eddy's rummaging through the cupboards, hair dishevelled and his pajama bottoms tugging low around his hips before he wordlessly pulls them back up. The light hits the glass window just right, and suddenly he's wreathed in sunshine: a sleepy angel made luminous.

 _Thud, thud_ , goes his heartbeat, and wait. _Thud, thud_?

He pushes away the sudden shyness that lingers at the back of his mind, begins moving quietly across the kitchen tiles, trying not to make a noise as he approaches.

Brett watches the other man replace the lid on the box of sugar as he takes a sip from his mug, and maybe he's still got a foot in the dream world, because the first thing that comes out of his mouth is: "You don't take sugar in your coffee."

Eddy finally glances over towards him. There's a faint smile on his face as he produces another cup of coffee from behind the cookie jars. "Nah." He strides over to where Brett is perched against the breakfast counter, sliding the warm cup into his eager, waiting hands. "That's 'cause _this_ is for _you_." A smirk so pronounced, it's almost audible. "Good morning."

"Good fucking morning indeed," Brett sighs, his words muffled as he lifts the mug to his lips. It's made just the way he likes it: three sugars, a splash of milk. He can't remember ever having taught Eddy the exact way to make his favorite brew, but somehow, he's got it down pat. Incredible. "God, I could kiss you." He pauses, chuckles at the strange word choice he's used. "Y'know what I mean."

"Well, maybe I don't."

Brett blinks at him owlishly, running the spoken words through his head again, before Eddy turns away and takes a sip into his coffee cup. Whatever the fuck _that_ means.

"Anyway," he draws out the word, taking a moment to dispel the confusion clouding his brain before he continues, "I didn't think you'd go downstairs without me."

"Needed my coffee fix. Nana told me to make myself at home, so," Eddy trails off, gesturing half-heartedly at the kitchen counter. It's sparkling clean, not a single utensil or condiment out of place. "I figured I knew how to use the coffee maker, so why not?"

"Yeah, right. You wouldn't be this prim and proper back at home with all your shit lying around and you don't even clean up your ramen packets!" Brett doesn't even think twice about naming their shared dorm _home_ ; it doesn't occur to him that Eddy might not be thinking the same thing until he's already spoken the words. Before he feels self-conscious about it, though, he places a hand to his forehead and sighs dramatically. "God, if _only_ you'd do the same back at the con. A man can dream."

"Asshole," Eddy punches his shoulder lightly, and in that moment, drinking coffee under the early morning sunshine, Brett feels beatific.

• • •

"I think I would like us to make homemade decorations this year," Helen explains over breakfast, spreading jam over her toast with a knife. Brett knows for a fact that she knows how to wield it in other non-utensil scenarios. "Brighten up the house, yes?"

"Yes, grandmamma." He swallows down a spoonful of soup and then nudges his friend's elbow. "Want me and Eddy to cut down a tree or something?"

"There is no need. We have plastic one in attic." She grins serenely. "Maybe wreaths and other decors! We paint balls and figurines and hang them up on the tree."

Beside him, Eddy leans forward, an easy grin on his mouth. "Arts and crafts, Nana? You sure you'll be okay with what might be really horrible products?"

"Ach, that just makes it more heartfelt!"

"I guess," Brett laughs. "Okay, we'll go out into the town to buy some materials."

They take the car out into Lamerra proper to help carry their shopping bags, and in no time at all, they've assembled a whole pile of things for his grandmother's crusade for artsy, DIY christmas decor.

It's a domestic errand, somehow. Brett might've had plenty of exes and he thinks he's been more or less a fantastic boyfriend to each and every one of them, but shopping for art materials and cutting down leaves from the trees outdoors isn't something he's done with anyone before Eddy, really. And maybe he realizes somewhere between the third and fourth stores they visit that clubs and fancy restaurants and movie theaters have nothing on small-town craft shops.

He looks up from his perusal of the christmas balls to see Eddy chatting with some starry-eyed shop attendant, her body leaning ever so slightly into the man's orbit, and. Well. There's an inexplicable flash of white-hot envy Brett can't quite explain, can't quite pinpoint where it's coming from.

Still: he kinda wants to push the girl into a puddle. How fucking elementary of him. Brett shoves his hands down his pockets and pointedly moves down another aisle without waiting for his friend to follow.

(The feeling only dissipates when they get back to the mansion, Eddy's laughter ringing in his ears and the knowledge that he's causing that joy a burning ember in his chest.)

• • •

It had only been a matter of time before things came to a head. He's just never prepared for the possibility that it could be so soon. He had been so focused on twisting leaves into a wreath with pliers that he absolutely misses the spark of mischief that alights in his grandmother's gaze.

(That'll teach him to pay attention to his surroundings more, where Helen Yang is considered.)

"You know," the old lady begins in a voice that just screams _trouble_ , "I have not seen you two kiss at all, Little Yang."

Brett freezes, almost cutting his fingers on the sharp edge of his clipping shears. Somewhere behind him, the crackling of bubble wrap stops, and oh _shit_. He ducks his head, tucks his shoulders in tighter as he resumes his work—maybe if he ignores the problem, it'll go away. Sadly, horrifyingly enough, she continues speaking.

"There is nothing wrong with doing that here, dearie. Or are you just shy your little old granny will see?" She flaps her hands at them delicately, and Brett recognizes the motion as clear as day: _get on with it, now, won't you_?

He'd scream out an obscenity if he could. Seeing as he's got nowhere else to go, all he can do is mentally panic. "I—well, I kinda—it's just really weird doing it with you around, grandmamma."

"Oh please. I know you are utterly shameless with your previous partners in the Facebook." Brett's looking attentively now, and he definitely does not miss the way Helen's eyes narrow in suspicion. "Is there something wrong with kissing Eddy, then?"

"N-no, but I—I just," he flails around in half-formed sentences for a moment when Eddy suddenly reaches out for him, a gentle touch at his elbow. Brett peers at his face, and _oh no_ , he does _not_ like the look on his face.

"Would it really be so bad, doing it in front of Nana?" The query is soft, almost inquisitive, and if it weren't for the fact that Brett knows they're just playing pretend, he might think Eddy _wants_ to kiss him. Which, quite frankly, isn't something that'll ever happen, so. This is good; he's helping him salvage this situation.

"Yeah, okay, maybe not so bad," he rattles out in response, breathing deeply as he turns his body to fully face his friend. God, are his hands sweating? His hands are sweating, aren't they— _fuck_. This isn't supposed to be happening. And when he glances up again—

Eddy's looking at him with something like hunger in his eyes, and _god, oh god_ —

Cheeks flush, eyes dilated, gaze dark: Brett's never thought Eddy would be such a good actor. It's—fuck it all, but it's a damned good look on the other man.

Eddy leans in, and Brett flinches when he murmurs low into his ear. "Lie back and think of Tchaikovsky," he whispers, and that's just _Eddy_ enough to be funny that he finds himself laughing before their lips meet.

And.

( _"It'll be fine! We'll know how to act it out, and I'm a master at these things, y'know that. Everyone knows that."_

_"Oh? Maybe you're just scared you won't live up to your reputation where I'm concerned."_

_"Yeah? Not really worried."_ )

(He is _beyond_ fucking worried right now.)

His glasses are in the way. Brett mentally frets about them until Eddy tilts his head just so, and—shit. He has no right to be this good, with the way he takes the kiss deeper, the new angle leaving Brett weak in the knees.

His best friend kisses like it's the end of the world: desperate, devouring, devoted. Brett's mind might just be imagining the tinge of longing he thinks he can taste with every slide of tongue against tongue, but really, can anyone blame him for thinking stupid things? It's a kiss that can make anyone lose their goddamn _mind_.

Eddy's hands are shaking where they're cupping his cheek, the crook of his neck, fingers trembling like they aren't sure of their welcome—aren't sure that they can be right there touching him at all.

(He can't read too much into this. He _can't_.)

Eddy licks into his mouth, sensual and slow, and god help him, but a moan spills out of his throat like it just can't help itself. They're chest to heaving chest, skin to heated skin, and—

"Children, please," suddenly comes from behind Eddy's shoulder, and _oh fuck_ , "would you like to go to bed now?"

The way they separate is almost violent, wrenching away from each other's touch and almost stumbling into stray tools and pine branches. It doesn't look at all natural or anything like what two people in a romantic relationship would do, and Brett prays to every deity that'll listen that his grandmother will think it's because they're just shy about PDA.

That kiss hadn't been anything at all like what they've practiced before coming here.

"S-sorry grandmamma," he finally manages to stutter out, and god, but his voice trembles around the syllables, his tongue suddenly as slippery as a newborn snail. Or something. Fuck, he can't even think straight right now. Where's the calm and collected Brett from that night at the motel, he wonders. That Brett needs to make a return _right fucking now_. "We didn't mean to give you a show."

" _Aiyah_ , it is all very good. Do not worry." Helen nods sagely, rubbing her chin as she looks between the two men with a smile that can rival the Cheshire Cat's grin. Brett doesn't _dare_ look at Eddy right now, turning his back on his best friend in a desperate attempt to catch his bearings. "Brings me back to my childhood, you know. Your grandfather was a giant—"

"I do _not_ need to hear any of that, please." Brett plugs his fingers into his ears; the discomfort simmering in his gut helps make his disgusted grin appear more genuine. He picks up the clipping shears again, willing the burn at the tips of his ears to subside. "Spare Eddy, at least! He doesn't need to get traumatized by your lurid stories."

It takes another moment or two, but Eddy finally jumps back into the conversation, his voice fairly controlled. "Yeah, I think I'll skip those, Nana. Sorry."

He scrounges up the willpower to finally glance at Eddy, and—he's cool as a cucumber. His hair's a bird's nest after Brett's fingers had been done with them and his collar's all askew, but his face is the picture perfect example of collectedness. He looks like someone who's been kissed but hasn't been moved by it. _What the fuck._

(Deep down, near the center of the earth where there's molten lava, Brett feels just the teensiest bit _hurt_.)

"Ach, you boys are no fun." Helen shakes her head, picking up another christmas ball for her to paint on. "Come now, let us continue our work."

Brett turns away from everyone immediately, burying himself elbow-deep in leaves and wires. When he's sure no one can see him, he sneaks a hand onto his mouth, fingers running against kiss-bruised lips. He can still feel phantom pressure on them, soft and demanding and—

Shit. Maybe Brett Yang really is an idiot.


	9. CHAPTER EIGHT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an eternity AGAIN, but here it is, let's keep chugging XD uwu

"I kissed Brett."

A sleepy yawn answers him from the other end of the call. He'd feel more guilty about calling Belle up with the wildly contrasting time zones, but at this point, his desperation for a listening ear trumps any familial feelings about disturbing his sister's slumber. "Sorry, I don't think this revelation you're having is worth waking me up at—like, _three_ in the morning, c'mon."

"I kissed Brett," Eddy repeats slowly, as if trying to make sense of the words that are flowing out of his mouth, "for _real_."

Another yawn. "Did you at least make it good for him?"

" _Belle_."

"Sorry, sorry. Yeah, I hear you." She pauses, and there's a sudden creaking of bed springs. Is she stretching or something? Now, he _does_ feel a little bit guilty. "And this is a problem because—why again? Aren't you supposed to be kissing as pretend boyfriends or whatever?"

"Yeah, but I think—fuck. I think I took it way too far." Eddy drags a hand down his face, slouching his shoulders further as he leans against the brick wall overlooking the garden. He's not doing something as undignified as _hiding_ , but—well. It's very close to that sort of thing. "He's going to kill me."

" _Or_ he'll think you're just being weirdly overcommitted to this thing he's roped you into, and frankly, he loves you way too much to kill you, so it'll have to be the latter option here."

Hell, but Eddy flinches when he hears _he loves you_ , because really, after this fucking stunt, he'll be lucky if Brett even wants to _look_ at him. "But—god, I kissed him in front of _Nana Helen_ , of all people."

"Whoa, bro, I'm impressed! I never took you for the brazen type."

"Ha ha, very funny." He glares at the ivory-coated hedge bush opposite the wall, rips it apart in a desperate flurry of leaves and snowflakes within his mind. As sudden as the screaming fury comes, however, the storm calms, and he's left with an aching in his ribs that has never subsided, not since the first day he's laid eyes on Brett Yang and the _everything_ that he is. He's so far gone, it's embarrassing. "He's going to kill me."

Belle sighs. "Calm down, Eddy," comes the expected words, but he can't just _calm down_. Not after a slip up. Not after _that_.

Truth is, he's never thought he'd ever get the chance to kiss Brett for real. Between becoming inseparable friends and a multitude of ex-partners, the idea had just never come up. And then Nana Helen had been on the brink of ordering them to kiss each other not even ten minutes ago, and maybe there's something far too selfish, far too greedy inside his chest that won't let such a prime opportunity pass it by. Brett had been _right there_ and it had tried to take its fill.

And it hadn't been satisfied.

He tucks his chin deeper into the loose folds of his sweater, willing the heat on his cheeks to go away. What the fuck is he even thinking about? He's here to help Brett strictly as a friend, not to suck his brains out through his mouth right in front of Brett's own grandmother.

_Think of the damn handwritten manuscripts, you idiot, they're why you're here in the first place!_

"Eddy?" He snaps back to himself, realizes Belle's been calling his name three times now. "You still there?"

"Yeah," he croaks, scrubbing his face hard with the coarse fabric of his sleeve. The roughness scrapes against his cheek, a ragged wake up call. "Yeah. Sorry, I—I'm fine now. Don't worry."

There's a pause imbued with disbelief. Fuck. His sister's far more perceptive than he wants her to be, at times. "Yeah? You sure?"

"Yeah. I'll figure this out. Sorry I woke you up."

Clearly, with the way Belle sighs through the speakers, clucking her tongue gently at him the same way she had done so when they were children, she doesn't believe him at all. "It'll be alright, Eddy. Do you really think a good snog or two can break apart a friendship like yours and Brett's so easily?" Eddy closes his eyes, thumps his head softly against the solid surface behind him. "Have a little more faith in your boy, little bro."

And yeah. Yeah, he should, shouldn't he?

"Thanks, Belle. You always know what to say," Eddy chuckles, allowing a grin to paint his lips wide.

"It's what I'm here for, y'know. Big sister perks." He can hear the smile in her words, and that makes something in his heart settle.

It'll be fine. _They'll_ be fine.

"So." A pause. "Did you use tongue?"

" _Go to sleep, Belle Chen,_ " he hisses at the phone, pointedly ignoring the laughter that he cuts off with a jab to the end call button.

• • •

So: maybe Brett _doesn't_ kill him.

They get called back into the room for more DIY christmas decor making, and Eddy had been prepared for all sorts of reactions to his reappearance, but all the other man really has to offer is an easy smile and a twinkle in his eyes.

Which is. Fine. Just fine. Of course, it's fine. He should be happy he's getting this normal reaction, when it could've been far worse. Eddy secludes himself to a corner and pretends he's not sulking, because he _isn't_. It would be absolutely pathetic if he is.

This time, they're joined by a ginger-haired man who introduces himself as Charles, and who Nana Helen calls her newly-acquired housekeeper. "Errand boy, more like," he demures, but nevertheless, he slides in amongst them like a missing puzzle piece. She seems to enjoy his company, and well, anyone who can make the old woman smile is a winner in Eddy's books.

Charles has got bright eyes and a charming smile, but strangely enough, Eddy always manages to catch the tail end of the other man's gaze skittering away from him, as if afraid to get caught in the act of staring. Which is beyond weird, considering—well. Considering. There's only so many reasons why someone would be staring at him, and every single one of those reasons would be rebuffed by the very existence of Brett Yang beside him.

Well. Maybe if he ignores that searching gaze from across the room, it'll go away soon. He opts to angle his body in his not-boyfriend's direction, scrambling through his brain for any subject matter he can bring up for immediate discussion.

And of course, surprise, surprise—his mouth runs off without any mental input.

"About that kiss," Eddy begins, but then his voice quails in his throat when Brett catches his eyes. Their gazes hold for a brief moment, and then the other man looks back towards the tub of paint in his hand.

"What about it?"

"I know we didn't get to practice it that thoroughly," and _thoroughly_ is an understatement here, but Eddy soldiers on, "and I just wanted to, uh, check in with you if you're good. With it. What happened earlier." God, a grade schooler can orate better than he can.

To his credit, Brett doesn't even bat an eyelash at his slip of the tongue, amongst other things. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good." His eyes flicker up, skittering over Eddy's face before he points them away. "That was a stellar move on your part, you smooth fucker. I didn't even know you kissed that good." He huffs a quiet laugh under his breath, focus glued to the striped christmas stocking he's making out of crêpe paper and star cutouts. "Grandmamma never stood a chance against your acting."

 _Acting_ , he says. The best kiss of his life with the man he loves had all been attributed to his _acting_. Fuck his life; he should be winning a dozen Oscars, then.

Eddy quietly turns away, pointedly latching his attention to the papier-mâché laid out on the table before him. Before long, he loses himself in his task, action taking over thought. No matter the environment, he and Brett had always worked well together. There's an unspoken shared rhythm in the way their hands move, the way their limbs ebb and flow around the cluttered space, so close together that they could touch foreheads if they lean too forward. Between the two of them, they quickly fill out a basket of tiny winged angels and glittering snowflakes, gold-encrusted christmas balls and candy canes looking real enough to eat. When she hobbles over to look at their progress, Nana Helen's smile looks absolutely angelic.

But then, maybe Eddy's still a teensy bit distracted by the proceedings, because the next time he blinks, he realizes he's holding a figurine. _Two_ figurines, in fact, joined together—they bear an uncanny resemblance to him and his best friend, and they're both holding tiny violins in one hand.

Their other hands are entwined together. Shit.

Still, he's gone this far to make the damn thing without even realizing it, and throwing it away would be a waste of good materials, so. He finishes painting Brett's violin, making sure the shade of brown's exactly right, and then he places it nonchalantly on top of the growing pile in the basket.

Despite his best efforts not to draw attention to himself, he jostles his friend's arm. For a moment, Brett's face flickers, suddenly unreadable as he glances at the Brett-and-Eddy figurine. Eddy tries his damnedest not to make it obvious that his heart's just plummeted into the depths of his stomach.

"It looks nice," Brett finally says, a coy smile curling at the edge of his lip. "I didn't know you were such an artist."

"Well, there's gotta be a reason why I aced Composition, right?"

Amusement sparks to life in the other man's eyes. "Showoff. Everyone thinks you're Miss Ackerman's favorite."

Eddy smirks, concealing his relief behind a veneer of smug confidence. "Excuses. It's all in the hard work," he taps his temple with a grin. Brett snorts, elbowing him hard between his ribs, and there's some sense of normalcy in that, the teasing. It's almost enough to smooth over the awkwardness that had been building up between them. Almost, he thinks—he's not about to forget what had happened so easily.

But then.

His best friend reaches out, grasps the tiny papier-mâché dolls made in their likeness. "After we hang it up on the tree," Brett tells him quietly, fingers stroking the figurines' conjoined hands with a gentleness that makes something in Eddy's chest splinter, "I think I'm taking this and bringing it home. Our kitchen needs some sprucing up."

And really, Eddy would be lying if he said he wasn't giddy, after that.

• • •

The first proper snowfall since their arrival comes that night. Painting the darkening skies in fluttering snowflakes, the ivory rain brings a chill to the air that had been absent the night before. As all good grandmothers do, Nana Helen blesses them with hot chocolate and oatmeal cookies, plates and mugs magically appearing on side tables for her guests' enjoyment.

They've relocated from the chairs to the opulent, fluffy rug stretched out in front of the brick fireplace. Swaddled in blankets, shoulder to shoulder against Brett as they stare into the flames, Eddy feels—well, he kinda feels like a child again, soft and warm and loved.

(It might not be in the way he wants, but loved all the same. It's enough. It has to be.)

There's quiet words between the occupants of the room, an easy sort of companionship in the lowlight. The radio drones in the background, the underlying, buzzing current making itself known whenever there's a lull in the conversation.

_". . . storm inbound within the next few days. . . everyone remain safe indoors. . ."_

Brett huffs a gust of air, falling down on his back onto the rug in a mock swoon. "Can we please have something less depressing to listen to?"

"Bah. You must learn how to appreciate the news, Little Yang." Nana Helen clucks her tongue, warming her palms with the teacup she cradles in her hands like a baby bird. "We _listen_. It is important."

"Listening." The bespectacled man shrugs, picking himself back up and taking a sip from the mug he'd left by the side of the rug. "I'd prefer music."

And oh, now there's an idea. Eddy untangles himself from the blankets, pads over to the violin cases half-buried under pillows at the foot of the sofa. He's overly aware of Brett's eyes on him, wide and bright as he understands what he's about to do. "Maybe I can help with that?"

Neither he nor Brett had touched their violins for a few days now, which is entirely sacrilegious and will probably get them in trouble should their professors get wind of this news, but between the fake dating and the christmas decor making and the mental screaming on his part, he thinks they can be forgiven for not practicing. Plucking his instrument from its velvet bed, Eddy takes a deep breath, raises his bow to the strings, and—

"No, no, no!" The sudden feminine shout startles him, almost causing him to drop his violin. _What the fuck?_ He stares wide-eyed in abject confusion; he hadn't thought the old lady was capable of that loud a noise. Nana Helen stands to her feet, ambling over towards him with a look of innocence. Weathered hands gently lower his arms, pulling down the violin to dangle by his hip. "I am sure you are very good musician, Edward, yes, yes, very good. But I want to hear you two play together _at_ the party, not _before_."

"Uh," the two men share a look. Brett seems to be making his best impression of a goldfish, and so Eddy takes one for the team and broaches the subject. "Erm, party? Like a Christmas party?"

"Yes, yes, a Christmas party!" She waves a hand in the air as if the matter means nothing. "I want to host one, now that my darling grandson has brought his loved one with him to visit me. _Aiyah_ , do not mind it; it is just a small gathering. You just look your best and enjoy, yes?" When she sees the two nod their heads meekly like little boys, the old woman nods in satisfaction. "Yes, good. But you will play for me at the party, won't you? A duet? Please? I will have those old sheet music out for you, let us see if I can find them in the attic," she trails off, and _oh_ _god_. The handwritten manuscripts.

Eddy pointedly refuses to make eye contact with Brett, lest their conspiracy unravels before them for Nana Helen to see. Here she is, dangling the carrot in front of two idiot donkeys, and heck if there's any chance in denying her, because there _isn't._ Not that there's anything wrong with playing a duet with the unattainable love of your life, but.

There's a reason they've never played together on a stage before, and it's not because of anything Brett's ever done.

"Yes, Nana, good idea," he tells her, proud of the fact that his throat just barely manages to keep itself from choking.

Brett's brain must've come back online just now, because he jumps in with explosive aplomb. "Yeah, it'll be fun, right?" He nudges Eddy's foot as the other man passes by him on the way to putting his violin back inside his case. "We could wow your guests, grandmamma. I'm sure Eddy and I can figure out something nice for Christmas."

"I do not doubt it," Nana Helen tells them, a twinkle in her eye as she moves towards the radio, turning off the buzzing noise with the flick of a switch. "Now, I think if we want some music, some old artifacts from my heyday will be a good companion tonight, do you not agree?" She moves over to her music player, fiddling around with the buttons for a few moments. As she returns to her perch on the grand armchair, the tinkling of piano keys fill the room.

It takes him a few moments to recognize the piece, but when the name comes to mind, he can't stop the helpless smile from stretching his mouth bashfully. "Debussy's _Children's Corner_? I can tell where you got your whimsy from."

"Yeah?" Brett smirks, his gaze turning soft as he looks at his grandmother from across the space. Her eyes are closed, her lips curled in a tiny smile as her tiny frame sways ever so slightly to the rhythm of the piece. "Only the very best from the genes of the Yang family."

"Amazing," Eddy shakes his head. He's not about to refute that statement out loud, of course, but it's nice to pretend he has a choice in doing so. Taking Brett's empty mug from his pliant fingers, he exchanges it for his own full one and takes his seat next to his friend, absentmindedly moving the blanket over the other man's shoulders as he takes the other half of the fabric.

Brett's eyes gleam in the moonlight, behind the veneer of his glasses. Eddy finds the words have all evaporated from his tongue.

"Do you remember," Brett says, soft and barely-there under the music, "the night after the afterparty of that concert of yours I ditched mine for?"

He could live a thousand years and never forget that night. "Yeah. Yeah, I remember."

Brett's smile grows, and he pats Eddy's arm as if petting a soft dog. "You came home sober, and I _didn't_ come home drunk. You could've left me out there on the streets, cold and defenseless, but you didn't." He shudders unbidden at the memory. _God_ , but the frustration, the fear— _that_ part of the evening isn't something he wants to relive at all. "When you found me, you dragged me back to the dorm, and y'know what? You did the exact same thing you did just now." Brett chuckles, tapping the mug against Eddy's knee. "I was shivering like hell through a hangover and you buried me under blankets and brought me water and held my hair while I was vomiting my guts out in the toilet. Not an experience I'd wish upon _anybody_ , hey?"

There's warmth in Brett's eyes, and it punches a hole straight through his chest.

(There's warmth in Brett's eyes, and it sucks that he still knows what he's about to say next.)

"You take care of me so well. You're the kind of friend I'd keep forever," comes the words, and goddamn, Eddy had known they were coming, but it doesn't make them any less hurtful to hear, like tiny thorns piercing through the walls of his lungs, his chest. "So I just wanted to say—thanks, Eddy. Not just for coming here with me, but for alway being there whenever I need you. You're the _best_ friend anyone could ever ask for."

Their hands clasp together tight, his own trapped between Brett's fingers. His skin tingles, wildness in the veins. It feels like he's jumped into the fireplace, overly hot and burning.

The real answer isn't something Brett would want to hear, and so Eddy does what he does best: push his love down, extend his hand without expecting anything in return.

"Any time. Of course, you're my best friend, and I'll always be there, y'know?" Here he is again, speaking words Brett will never understand just how much he means them. And maybe he'll always adore this brilliant, unattainable love of his life, but that doesn't mean he's strong enough to stand tall while being constantly reminded of his place in Brett's life.

It's not the place he really wants, but it's the place he deserves: the place Brett had chosen for him. If _best friend_ is all he's ever going to be in this life, then fine.

But—he is so very tired of pretending that everything's _all_ fine. He's tired of pretending he doesn't want more.

Still. He can do this. He can do this for _him_.

Leaning forward, Eddy presses his mouth to the warm skin of Brett's forehead, hand cradling his cheek for a brief moment before he lets it fall to his side. "I'm tired. I'll go head up first, okay? You keep Nana company here." He pauses, breathes against his friend's hair for a moment, saves this memory to remember later. "Good night, Brett."

Eddy withdraws slowly, hesitant to let go so soon, and then stands to his feet. He dares not look back over his shoulder as he nearly flings himself up the stairs to their room.

(Which is a shame, really. He misses the way Brett's hands clench around the blanket, white knuckles stark against the fabric, as if to hold them back from reaching out. He misses the way those eyes he so loves grow wide, and something that is very close to but cannot entirely be called yearning blossom in their depths, something a whole lot like _ache_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [debussy's children's corner l. 133 - 5. the little shepherd. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F1SWz_ERfUQ)


	10. CHAPTER NINE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slow and steady wins the race,, *hides behind hands* i'm sorry for the delay!

For the first time in a good long while, Brett wakes up long before Eddy does.

He lies awake in bed for a bleary-eyed moment, watching the faint winter sunshine stream through the curtains, hazy strips of light across his vision. He is pointedly, painfully aware of the quiet snores emanating from the other side of the bed, the warmth he imagines radiating through the Pillow Wall like unstoppable lances of fire through the cloth, ashes hot enough to kindle his paper-skin.

As more of the world comes into focus, he realizes: there's a Problem. An inevitable sort of Morning Problem.

It isn't anything to be ashamed about, not really, and more so with Eddy; they've been friends far too long to be shy about something as trivial and commonplace as _morning wood_. Still, the memory of that blinding, _blistering_ kiss is—something. It's a stimulating memory, whether he means it to be or not, and he certainly does not fucking mean it to be at all.

God. He shouldn't even be _thinking_ about it still, until now, _stupid brain_.

(A confession he'll take to the depths of his grave: he's never been kissed like that before. Fuck, it makes him sound like an absolute wilting virgin in spite of all the people he's locked lips with, but it's _true_.)

And as much as he'd like to laze around some more in this half-waking, he needs to take care of his business before Eddy blinks his eyes open and sees. Sees—whatever it is he might see, and then come to the wrong conclusion.

(He's not quite sure what the conclusion is anymore.)

Hoisting himself up, Brett crawls across the mattress all ninja-like, wriggling off the bed and onto the soft rug muffling his footfalls. Skittering across the bedroom floor and into the bathroom like a startled rat isn't exactly his finest moment, but the maneuver puts several more feet and a locked door between himself and his friend, so really, it's his finest _effort_ , at the very least.

He swans into the shower, throws his clothes in the laundry basket, grits his teeth as cold water thunders down on his skin from the shower head, and then.

Brett takes himself in hand and _takes care of business_ , as the saying goes, with the kind of single-minded focus he normally reserves for playing Paganini pieces or high-stakes games of Operation back at the con.

And if his mind strays to someone close, someone dear, someone still wrapped up in soft sheets just on the other side of the wall—

Well. His mind's just confused by the early morning haze, is all.

• • •

Despite the strange sort of relief that settles over his shoulders after, guilt remains a persistent imp poking tiny holes in the walls of his stomach. Considering the fact that he's sitting at the breakfast counter watching the unintended star of his morning-shower fantasy trying to flip a pancake, it's more than reasonable for Brett to feel a teensy bit unsettled. Uneasy. And for all his bravado about supposedly being unshakeable with this whole thing, he's sweating bullets even in the chill of winter.

So, there's only one thing to do: pretend everything's fine and dandy like his life depends on it.

What he's done: it's not exactly an isolated occurrence, when he thinks about it. People probably think about their best friends by accident all the time when they get off, or something, so. Yes. Maybe he should just stop thinking about it now, or the man in question will—

"Earth to Brett Yang. Earth to Brett Yang."

—notice. Yep, just like that, _Brett you moron._

He covers his slip up with a slightly exaggerated yawn, his gaze darting up to meet his friend's in a way he hopes doesn't look startled. "Hmmh? What?"

Eddy gives him a funny look. Shit. Not looking too good right off the bat. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just—I'm still sleepy, I guess." He rubs his eyes for good measure, displacing his glasses from the bridge of his nose. It's not quite clear if Eddy's buying his acting facade, but then the other man's shrugging and turning back to the stove, so. Brett counts that as a win. Double win, because _pancakes_ , of course.

In no time at all, they're both watching maple syrup and butter dribble down the fluffy cakes in a medley of delicious goodness, and if he gets a little too misty-eyed staring at a breakfast meal of all things, it's all fine because Eddy's not going to rat him out.

He's about to dig in when a warm cup slides into his palm, Eddy the exerting force behind the movement. "Well, here, take your coffee," he mumbles, words slightly obscured from behind the rim of the mug he's put against his mouth, turning his gaze somewhere over Brett's shoulder in the general vicinity of the window like he's suddenly found something interesting to look at elsewhere.

Their fingers brush as they make the hand-off. A shiver ripples down Brett's spine, and he has to cough dramatically to mask the way his body jolts. _What the fuck._ "Thanks, man," he replies, managing a smile as he quickly downs a few gulps of the beverage, only vaguely aware of the burning sting on his tongue.

Breathe in, breathe out. It's just Eddy. Good 'ol Eddy. There's no reason to be nervous around him, of course not, _stop_.

"So," the word slices through the air like a knife, and it's only now that Brett realizes they've just been sitting there for a while, dumb as rocks and _not_ talking, which is quite frankly out of the ordinary, especially in Brett's corner. Eddy used to complain Brett was relentlessly _wordy_ in the morning, whether or not he was hungover or exhausted.

God, leave it to him to clamp up like an idiot right this very moment. Brett clucks his tongue and raises his eyebrows at Eddy. "So—what?"

"Have you been holding out on me?" At the scrunched up face he makes at that question, Eddy laughs. "Nana told me about this skating rink around here, and you never even said a word, bro, c'mon." There's a twinkle in his eyes that makes something in Brett's stomach cramp, and if he were a more suspicious sort of person, Brett would call him out on his bullshit or whatever he's trying to do here. "Finish your breakfast, quick. We're going ice skating."

"Oh yeah?" He chuckles, shaking his head faintly in amusement. Ice skating? He could think of better things to pass the time. More _important_ things, even. Case in point: "What about practicing that duet _you_ promised her?"

"I mean, you were gonna go along with it anyway, so hey." Eddy smirks, plucks their empty coffee mugs and carries them over to the sink. "And don't worry about the duet. Remember the _Jingle Bells_ medley we did last year?"

Brett does, but he can't quite figure out how it connects to their dilemma. "That was an orchestral piece, though?"

"Well, lucky for us, my ex arranged a duet out of _Jingle Bells_ way back then." Right as the words come tumbling out of his mouth, Eddy's face flushes red, faint color rushing to his cheeks. He swivels to face the sink, washes the cups clean. "He, uh, he made it so he and I could play it together. The arrangement's really good, so I thought—y'know, maybe we could use it for the duet. He'll probably flip his shit if he knew, though, so, uh. Don't tell?"

The other man shares this piece of information like it still means something to him, despite everything, and Brett is—Brett is—

_Resoundingly not jealous, because you have no fucking right to be, you idiot._

He manages to wrench a laugh from somewhere in his chest, leaning his forehead against the fist he's got propped up on the counter. Thank god Eddy's turned away from him, the rush of faucet water drowning out the sharp edges in his voice. "Yeah, of course, but _wow_ , rubbing it in much, huh, Mr. Heartbreaker?"

Laughter mingles with the trickle of water. "Aw, don't worry, no one can compare to you, _sweetcakes_."

"Funny," Brett snorts, allowing his stance to relax once Eddy looks over towards him again. "I'm never gonna live that one down, huh?"

"Nah. And really, when it comes down to the two of us?" There's a strange half-smile on his friend's face. Brett's gaze flickers down, then back up again. "You'd be more likely to take that title, bro."

He doesn't quite know how to respond to that aside from a half-hearted shrug, but then Eddy's hustling him over to the door, and the moment is lost.

• • •

"This was a stupid idea."

Eddy laughs at him at that, but Brett's too busy trying to keep his balance to get back at him for it. _Cheeky bastard._

So in the end, he'd given in to his friend's wishes. Now, he's teetering uncomfortably over the ice, his knees shaking like trees in a storm. He is and has been many things in his life, but he is not and has never been a naturally gifted skater. He'd rather stick to a stage than a skating rink, thank you very much.

In complete contrast, Eddy seems to win at everything in life like a fucking champ, and so yeah, it's definitely par for the course that he knows his way out on the ice. It's still totally unfair, though. Brett's got half a mind to stick his foot out all childishly in an attempt to stop the other man's graceful strides, but then—nah. That's just not on.

Somewhere in between fumbling over wearing skates and making their way out into the white arena, they've ended up holding hands. Which is good. More than good. Brett's not saying shit, though; he's just going to clamp down hard on the warm appendage wrapped around his own and pretend it's all because he doesn't want to fall down on his ass. By the looks of it, Eddy seems to believe him, so. He's doing things right here.

"You're just saying that 'cause you can't skate good."

"Bro, you'd feel this way too if you were me right now," he complains, casting his gaze out into the open area around them. There's a fair amount of people around: a family linking their arms together like a human train, a couple of children giggling as they race each other around the edges of the rink. The sight of the latter makes him groan flamboyantly. "God. Even little kids got more game than I do."

Eddy shakes his head. His shoulders are shaking ever so minutely, like he's barely holding back his amusement. "Aw, we'll get you used to it sometime soon. Let's go a little bit faster, hey? I'll catch you if you fall."

"Psh." He rolls his eyes, tugs hard at the sleeve he's clinging to. "Don't worry, babe, I'll catch _you_ if you fall."

Eddy raises his eyebrows at him. "Says the man wobbling like a newborn duckling."

" _Duckling_? How dare you."

"Cute, cuddly, quacks a whole fuckton, waddles around like a bumbling simpleton." The other man flicks a wayward strand of hair off Brett's forehead, a sparkling grin on his lips. "You're a lovely little duckling, ain't ya?"

He shouldn't be this flattered. He shouldn't be affected by being called cute or cuddly, and especially being called cute or cuddly by _Eddy Chen_ , of all fucking people. No way. Brett pushes down the blistering feeling in his chest and lets out a throaty laugh. "I'm pretty sure I'm being insulted somewhere in there, so no thanks."

"Fine, I'll take back half my statements then." Eddy presses their shoulders together, nudging him with a smile. "Cute and cuddly it is."

"Yeesh, you sap." The glow in his chest is second only to the warmth Eddy emanates, an irresistible furnace just within reach, and—shit. He _has_ to, now, doesn't he? "Excuse me, but you're doing this all wrong." He'll be proud of this little maneuver later, but Brett manages to pivot perfectly on the ice without a single wobble, pushing himself straight into Eddy's arms, his face fitting into the curve of Eddy's neck. He wraps his arms around the other man and squeezes tight, trusting in his friend's reflexes to balance them out on the slippery floor. " _This_ is how you cuddle, bitch."

Somewhat distantly, he hears the loud thundering of Eddy's heart, through the thick layers of fabric, but he's more than a little too distracted to point that fact out or make sense of it at all. His body feels like a livewire, sparks jolting down the length of his spine. Brett suppresses a shiver and hums appreciatively as the taller man mirrors the motion, his arms creeping slow around Brett's frame.

"Yeah. This is," Eddy trails off, and the breath in his lungs seems to hold back as he waits for the answer, "nice."

 _Nice_ , he says.

(It's like Eddy isn't as affected as he is, and _god_ , but he wants to unsettle the man just as much as he unsettles Brett. Have more of a foothold in that organ beating loud against his ear to match his own wardrum heartbeat.)

Brett chuckles, smacking the undefended bicep within his reach. "You better say more than just _nice_ , you fucker. I'm giving it my all here."

If not for the fact that he's practically clinging to Eddy like a persistent limpet, he would've never heard the whispered words falling from his friend's lips, low and just a teensy bit sharp. "Well, you're not, really."

Brett untangles himself from those strong arms, pins the other man with a confused look. _The fuck?_ "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just," Eddy shrugs, turning his gaze away. "Y'know. You're just acting, so it's not really your all." A laugh so forced, it grates on Brett's ears. "Not that _that's_ bad, nah. Anyway, forget it—I was just messing with you! God, you should see your face."

As much as he wants to drop this subject, because heaven knows what might come out of his mouth should he try to tackle this, Brett owes it to this man to at least try and make things right. There had been something in Eddy's eyes, something like pain or misery. And even though the mere thought of backtracking on their plans feels like a tooth being pulled out, Brett would do anything to keep those hateful emotions out of Eddy's eyes. "Hey. If you're regretting this, or having second thoughts, or some shit—"

"No, no. 'Course not, bro." Eddy shakes his head, takes Brett's arm and tucks it under his own. "I'm in this with you, remember? I wanna get my hands on those manuscripts just as much as you do. We'll get through this, and then we can go home and stop lying to everyone."

And this is where everything circles around to, right? The fucking manuscripts. As much as he still cares a whole lot about those, and _especially_ the Strad still on the line for him here, he's starting to resent those things, just a little.

"Yeah." Despite Eddy's assurances, his gut is still churning up a storm. He can't just move on like it's nobody's business. "Sorry about the whole—"

"Calm the fuck down, Brett." Eddy sighs, leans his head against Brett's in a show of intimacy that goddamn near breaks his heart. "I _wanted_ to do this with you. I'm _with you_. Don't take that decision away from me."

With his skin wrapped up in warmth and the organ in his chest banging away at the drum walls of his ribs, Brett's aware of only one crystallic truth—

_You don't deserve him, Brett._

(And somewhere deep down, Brett begins to think about what it might mean to be someone Eddy deserves to have at his side.)


	11. CHAPTER TEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to all of you readers still sticking by me despite the _ridiculous_ length of time between updates: you are the real heroes. ily all <3 hope you guys enjoy the update!

There's something different about Brett, and for the life of him, Eddy can't quite figure out what exactly _it_ is.

He's not sure where the tipping point had manifested itself, really. Sometime between getting in the car to the ice rink and trudging back out into the snowy outside, it's as if Brett's axis has shifted somewhere to the right. Or left. Whichever new direction. His best friend looks fine at first glance, sure, but all the tiny warning signs are right there, in his walk and in his talk. Obvious, if you know what to look for, and Eddy's status as _best friend_ (and oh, isn't that just bittersweet?) puts him in the unique position of knowing precisely what to look for.

Brett's eyes are slightly glazed over, gaze hovering on the space just above Eddy's right shoulder. There's some degree of sluggishness to his steps. The stoic look that's normally plastered on his face has twisted, albeit subtly, into something more thoughtful, something more reflective. And that, above all things, is what scares Eddy the most.

On a better day, he might've probably solved this mystery by now, but his brain's a bit befuddled at the moment, thanks.

He's still reeling from the impromptu cuddle session in the middle of the skating rink. He could live out a hundred lives and not understand nor deserve the fact that the other man had squeezed the air right out of him without any prior reason.

(Okay, so he'll at least admit to maybe, probably, possibly _flirting_ with Brett. Just a little. It could've easily been misconstrued as friendly ribbing, so. And fuck, but he's _allowed_ to; they're boyfriends, pretend though they are.)

He had been so scared that Brett would find him out, notice the way his heart had been threatening to jump straight out of his chest and into a soggy wet mass of muscle in Brett's hands, that he'd tried to balance things out with a dash of casual indifference, and—well.

 _Nice_ had been the not-enough word he'd used to describe the warmest hug he's ever known. Oh god, but he really is something of an idiot, huh?

But hey, maybe he isn't really _that_ much of an idiot, because Eddy's pretty damn sure it's something he's said during or after that hug that must've tilted Brett's equilibrium. The problem is, he doesn't know what he's done to trigger anything in his friend.

What had he done? _Fuck_ , the state of not knowing is a horrible thing.

Try as he might to ignore it, Eddy has always been a sucker where Brett's mental wellbeing is concerned. He nudges the other man's shoulder, and it's another testament to Brett's distracted state that it takes him a few seconds to look up from where he's staring at a sharp edge jutting out from the cement of the parking lot. "You okay? What's up?"

"Huh? Nothing," the other man deflects, angling a winsome smile in Eddy's direction that he doesn't trust, not one bit. "Come on, let's go back. I'm fucking freezing out here."

Ever the gentleman, Eddy quickly divests himself of his thick winter coat, leaving his limbs clad in a thinner jacket as he wordlessly offers the coat to Brett, who stares at it for a moment before shaking his head.

"Don't be a martyr for my sake, fool."

( _I'd be anything for you_ , Eddy carefully does not say in reply.)

He opts to raise his eyebrow incredulously, crossing his arms over his chest. "What, you don't think I can handle a little bit of snow?"

"Says the one complaining about it when we first got here," Brett snorts, stepping closer to acquire the heavy piece of clothing.

If he hadn't been looking so closely, Eddy would've missed the way Brett mindfully positions his hands a polite distance away from Eddy's own, clutching the offered coat in a way that speaks of mild avoidance. But: he's looking closely, and so he _does_ notice. The non-touch, deliberate as it had been conducted, hurts like a _bitch_.

"But thanks," Brett continues speaking, moving away now in the direction of their car. "Let's go before _you_ start freezing your ass off."

There's no way to go but forward. "Well, go on, then," he mutters, trailing behind his friend as they pick their way past frozen puddles and snowflake piles.

His words rewind themselves in high definition: _Nothing. Just—y'know. You're just acting, so it's not really your all._

And hell. Maybe he _does_ know what the catalyst had been.

Fuck him and his big mouth that doesn't quite know when to shut up. His tongue's been letting slip all sorts of nonsense like that recently, no matter how hard he tries to quell the intrusive thoughts, the inner desire for more. This is a dangerous game he's playing; if he isn't careful, things might blow up in his face, and nothing about that is going to be pretty.

(But then: he had already screwed up somehow, hasn't he?)

• • •

Turns out he's got a whole other can of worms to tackle.

Ever since this morning, someone's been leaving candies and chocolates in several places for him, on side tables and armchairs and even the brick wall outside that he frequents. Normally, he wouldn't think any sort of gifts lying around would be aimed towards him, out here where no one really knows him, but the evidence is right there: his name and short messages etched across tiny sticky notes in charming chicken scratch.

_Hope you're having a great day! Have a treat!_

It's kinda sweet, all things considering. He's grateful for the little bursts of pleasant surprise that spark up within him, but.

He kinda hopes his best friend's the one behind it, despite all signs to the contrary.

(So he's susceptible to the cheesy gift types; sue him.)

Any half-hearted daydreams of his best friend spoiling him with sweet treats are dashed by the bewildered look on Brett's face when he catches him red-handed. Or silvery-and-brown-handed, in this case.

"Nice Hershey's," the shorter man quips, poking at his shoulder in greeting.

"Thanks." Eddy turns his gaze back to the chocolates in his hand, suddenly unsure how to approach any discussion of this with his not-boyfriend without making it weird. "I think—I think it's a gift."

Brett's eyebrows furrow, his forehead scrunching up and staying that way. "A gift? From who?"

"Dunno, man. I mean, _Hershey's Kisses?_ A secret admirer, then." The frown on the other man's face deepens, and Eddy raises his hands up in surrender. Still, he can't help but grin jokingly. "Hey, kidding, of course."

"You better be." The severe expression on Brett's face doesn't let up, rainclouds peeking through the tight lines of his mouth. "I don't share."

And god, but he _knows_ Brett doesn't really mean the declaration in any other way but mock-teasingly platonic. That doesn't stop the sudden shiver rippling deliciously up his spine, goddamn it. It doesn't mean _anything_. Stop hopelessly getting your hopes up, Eddy Chen.

"Hah," he manages to laugh, shaking his head as he pivots away, pointedly keeping his eyes on the chocolates and not on whatever journey of emotions Brett's face has taken on in the corner of his eye.

So: back to the mystery at hand. It's probably not Nana Helen (he'd asked and had gotten an amused smile in return), and it's certainly not Brett (no matter how much he wished it were so).

Well. There's only one other person who's allowed perpetual entry to the house, as far as he can tell. He can put two and two together just fine all on his own.

He doesn't let the realization faze him at all, quietly opening the silver wrapping and extending it within Brett's easy reach. "Want some?"

There's a momentary pause, and then comes Brett's hand into the packaging to scoop out a few chocolate pieces. The rainclouds remain amidst the skies of his face, on the verge of sending a torrent thundering down from the heavens. Were Eddy a more fanciful man, he would think Brett's _jealous_. Which, of course, might be true, in the protective-best-friend sense. Of course. "Won't your secret admirer get pissed if you give me some?"

And here's a truth they don't need to put into words: whenever there's rain threatening to pour, they can trust each other to bring the sun back.

Eddy's hand shoots up to grab Brett's wrist, tugging the other man down to share the sofa with him. "I can share whatever the fuck I want with my _boyfriend_ , thanks," he drawls, slouching down against the cushions and throwing pieces of Hershey's Kisses at Brett. "Let's both get wasted on chocolate before we practice; we need the sugar high to conquer the duet."

When Brett's lips tick up in a helpless smile, Eddy counts it as a victory.

_Here comes the sun, and I say it's all right._

• • •

If there's one thing Eddy hasn't anticipated happening so far, it's the fact that sleeping together—and _only_ sleeping together, thanks, brain—comes so easily to them that it's as if they've been doing this for ages and not for what's only been less than a week.

They don't even talk about their sleeping arrangements whatsoever; Brett gravitates naturally to the left side of the bed, and Eddy sets his phone down on the right-hand side table without a word every single night. It's all organic, their wordless mutual understanding of how things should go in this quiet space for two, and if this strange familiarity tugs near-painfully at Eddy's heartstrings, then it's no one's business to know but his own.

Brett's stretched out over the covers, humming his part of their duet under his breath as he scrolls through his phone. Eddy joins him a few moments later, sliding under the blankets with a weary sigh. The Pillow Wall is still there between their particular sides of the bed, rising tall in all its fortifying softness, and in this dazed state, Eddy isn't quite sure whether to curse or bless its existence, and the fact that it's keeping him away — or at bay? — from his best friend.

He's already got a foot in the dream world when Brett breaks the silence, and fuck, but all the hairs on his skin stand in attention, and well, there's no hope in sleeping any time soon.

"Ever wonder what would've happened if we never became friends?"

By the time the last word is let loose, Eddy's fully awake, because _what the fuck?_ "What brings this on?"

Brett shrugs, sinking deeper into the mattress. "Just thinking."

"Thinking's bad if you let it take you somewhere you'll be wasting your time in."

Another shrug. "Just curious." A beat. "Maybe I was just thinking I don't deserve a friend like you."

"Well, it could go both ways, you know." He doesn't even need to look to know Brett's whipped his head around to face him with what must be an impressively incredulous look, and no, they're _not_ going to debate about this right now. "Maybe it's not about deserving."

"So what _is_ it about?"

"It's about being here and being together, idiot." Eddy pauses, smirks. "No matter the shifty lies I gotta make in the name of your mission."

" _Our_ mission, sweetcakes." Brett chuckles, and then sobers pretty quickly, clearing his throat before the next words come. "I still feel like shit, hey. I know you didn't wanna lie to everyone about this, but I kinda forced you to come here and basically do my bidding. Bribed you with manuscripts, more like. _Fuck._ "

God, Eddy's not going to get any rest if Brett keeps going on and on about this. "Hey, I agreed to this whole charade, yeah? We established this earlier, and we also established that I've got just as much a stake in this as you do. Just stop—stop thinking, Brett. Go to sleep."

Silence answers him, but just when Eddy thinks the other man had finally listened to common sense and followed his suggestion, there's a sudden soft nudge at his hand.

_What?_

He looks down, and oh, lo and behold. There's an arm reaching across the barrier between them, a lone figure atop the Pillow Wall, and the hand attached to it is—it's there. It's silently asking for permission, and—

Shit. _Shit._

A lump in his throat threatens to choke him as Brett slowly, carefully entwines their fingers, clasping their hands together tight, warmth cradled in the breadth of their palms.

And Eddy gets it; really, he does. Brett doesn't even need to spell it out for him or anything. It's heard loud and clear, as if Brett's shouted it out from the roof of the mansion: _I am so fucking glad you're here._

_I'm here, you're here, we're here._

_We're okay._

_I'm so fucking glad you're here._

He thinks of anything to say, anything at all. Tries to say something serious. Fails. Goes for a joke instead, rendered ineffective by the crack of his voice on the last syllable. "Aww, this is touching."

"Don't ruin the moment, shithead."

Eddy tries his damnedest to purge the besotted smile from his face, but he isn't really capable of stamping it down at the moment. This, right here, is Brett _needing_ him, and he's all too happy to be of service, to be of any help.

The question slips from his mouth unbidden, like a courier pigeon accidentally let loose into the winds. "Now, where would I be without you?"

There's a scoff from the other side of the wall. "Living your best life without a pair of manacles to drag you down, I bet."

"Well, that's where you're wrong. There's no other kind of bond I'd want more." The organ in his chest is purring, grateful that he's allowing the burden of his longing to ease from his shoulders, if only for a moment. He can say what he feels and not be questioned for it; it's vague enough to be understood as wholly platonic. Whatever Brett's comfortable with, but he can at least _know_.

"There's no living my best life without you. You gotta know that, right?" Eddy breathes in, breathes out. Steady. Affirmation. "Not without you."

(All the lies they've concocted thus far had fallen from Eddy's lips with bittersweetness, but _this_? This truth is all honey, through and through.)

From the corner of his eye, Brett's expression shifts, then, a glimmer in the dark. Something's wrong? No, wait, something's _different_. Eddy can't quite put a finger on it, but it's there, making silent ripples in the air between them.

"Brett?" The name hangs in the air in a whisper, like a prayer.

The hold on his hand tightens. "It's nothing." Eddy watches attentively as Brett closes his eyes, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows before continuing. "You sure know how to make a man feel special, huh?"

"I learned from the real Mr Heartbreaker himself, of course."

Brett snorts, and the spell breaks. It's all for the better, Eddy thinks; he'd been finding it hard to breath. "Incorrigible."

"You love it anyway," Eddy tells him, pressing his grin into the back of his hand.

He's already slipping back into the dark void of sleep when he hears the soft reply: "That I do."

(It's not the confession of love he really wants, but it's enough all the same.)

• • •

Eddy comes downstairs early the next morning with every intention of making waffles to surprise Brett with, but then he catches a streak of red hair from across the hallway, and his feet change course.

There's something he needs to do first.

"Hey, Eddy, good morning," comes the cheerful greeting when he finally catches up to Nana Helen's housekeeper. Eddy slows in his approach, watching the way the sunlight casts warm shadows on the other man's face.

When he stops to really think about it, Charles isn't all that bad. He's attractive in the fresh-faced uni student kind of way, tall and lean and smiley. From the few verbal exchanges he's managed to have with him, it's apparent to Eddy that Charles not only possesses a wicked sense of humor—which he can appreciate—but also a sort of dry wit that often leads to intellectual sparring between the two of them on all sorts of subjects.

What's more, he's the son of a cellist who had once worked in the same orchestra hall alongside Helen Lee Yang, and thus knows shit about music that rivals Brett and Eddy's own knowledge. He can see why Nana Helen would want to keep a man like Charles around.

If he weren't so hopelessly in love with Brett, Eddy thinks he might've given this casual flirtation thing a shot.

As it stands now, all Eddy's done is compare every single aspect of this red-haired man to his best friend. As it stands now, all Eddy's bothered to notice at the moment, looking straight into green eyes, is that Charles is not the right fucking height for him.

Fine, so he's attracted to Brett's one-head-shorter height. _Fine._

(Shit, but he is _so far gone_.)

"Good morning, Charles." He blinks once, twice, and then barrels on forward before his resolve crumbles. "I, uh, need to ask you about something."

Thank god the other man doesn't even try to pretend he doesn't know exactly what Eddy's trying to get at. "Is this about the little gifts I've been leaving around for you? In which case: there's no need to thank me."

"Aha, right, about that." Eddy clasps his hands together, puts on the polite smile he wears whenever he's faced with someone he has to reject in some way or another. "I still want to thank you. They're, uh, they're really sweet, and it's really thoughtful of you."

Charles' smile is beatific. "Any time."

Right. Anyway. Fuck, he wants to sink into the ground. "I was just wondering," Eddy continues, a soldier slugging through the muddy war trenches, "are you—expecting anything?"

"For you to reciprocate, you mean?" He can feel his own eyes widen in surprise, and Charles lets out a chuckle. "Let's not beat around the bush here, Eddy. I think you're cool, and I wanna get to know you better." A pause. "Through tiny peace offerings for now. How'd you like the Hershey's?"

Eddy stares at him blankly, caught in a whirlwind of confusion. This cannot be happening to him right now. The fuck.

"But why?" That comes out way too high-pitched and aggressive, and so Eddy backtracks. "I mean—shit. Sorry." He runs a hand down his face, absurdly grateful for the patient silence on the other man's part. "Look, I'm really thankful for the gifts and all, but Brett's my boyfriend. I'm not actually available, you know?"

 _You saw me try to suck his brains out through his mouth like we weren't a public spectacle right then and there like two days ago,_ he doesn't say, but wants to. _You were an audience, oh my god!_

He fully expects the other man to back down, but then the unthinkable happens: all Eddy gets in reply is an amused look and a casual shrug.

"Still, worth a shot. I was trying to test the waters with you because," and here Charles suddenly looks bashful, hesitant even as his eyes blaze with determination, with a resounding sense of self-belief, "well—you and Brett aren't _really_ together, right?"


	12. CHAPTER ELEVEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've finally managed to pull another update out from the abyss of my mind, thank ling ling! thank you all for your continued patience; i've already outlined the next chapter so hopefully will be able to update sooner. for now: choo choo into angstville XD

Never let it be said that Helen Lee Yang is not an opportunist.

Brett's only made it five steps into the room, absentmindedly outlining the curve of Eddy's shoulders under that coat with his gaze, when a weathered hand finds its way onto his arm, grasping tight in the manner he'd once come to associate with sudden vanishing acts on Halloween and quiet meetings behind his parent's backs, and _oh no, oh god_.

He knows what's coming. An interrogation is _not_ what he needs nor wants right now, not with his head in a tizzy over—whatever had happened out on the ice rink today.

"I will borrow my grandson for a bit, if that is alright, Edward," Helen says serenely. _Nothing to see here, nothing to worry about_ , says her countenance. _Bullshit_ , Brett thinks, with a large amount of respect and yet no small hint of terror.

"Oh, uh," Eddy hesitates, looking over to him, but clearly, whatever softness that had befallen them just a while ago has already jumped off a cliff or something, because the next thing that the taller man does is smile and wave a hand in the other direction. Despite Brett's best constipated expression aimed directly at him, the traitor. "Sure, Nana. I'll just be upstairs."

And with that, his best friend's left him at the mercy of his grandmother. _Great._

Several moments later, he's forced to admit that this _sudden_ baking escapade with his grandmother isn't so bad, really. The kitchen's warm: a welcome change of temperature and scenery after the cold of the outside. Brett finds himself holding spatulas and baking pans, stirring bowls of batter and butter on the marble counter. Despite the cosy atmosphere and the gut-rumbling smell of almonds and chocolates in the air, it's pretty evident that the threat of interrogation is still there. He's probably hallucinating the strange twinkle in Helen's eyes, but still. He's not ( _that_ much of) an idiot; it's obvious there's _something_ going on.

Fuck it. If he's going to die of mortification or something, then he might as well go with a stomach full of warm cookies and cinnamon on his tongue.

"Oh, do not look so tense, Little Yang." Helen smiles at him, remarkably angelic for someone he's heard chewing out rude grey-haired conductors right in front of entire orchestras back then. Brett's not scared shitless of his ancestor. He is _not_. "I am not going to scold you or anything."

"Psh, no, of course not, grandmamma. Why would I think that?"

"Your mouth is trembling like a little child," she points out, and Brett immediately bites down on his lip, which really _has_ been shaking. Shit. "Ach. You think I do not know your tells."

Well, there goes any hope of making it through this thing unscathed. "You're thinking that I should be telling you something."

"I do not know what you mean." Helen puts her whisk down and pivots to face him, hands on hips. " _Is_ there something you should be telling me?"

_Eddy and I are lying to you because we aren't really a couple; we're only pretending for the manuscripts you promised me, but then I'm lying to Eddy by not telling him about the Strad that you've also promised to give me, and he might hate me if he ever finds out because I lied to him, and also I'm getting weird tingly feelings about Eddy that I'm still trying to process, but I can't catch a break to wrap my head around it because we're still keeping up this charade for you, full circle cycle kind of shit, and—_

Yeah right. There is no fucking way he's saying any of that. Brett settles for the succinct, altogether deceitful route: "No."

"Then there is nothing to speak about, dear boy." She blinks at him for a few moments, eerily silent, before she turns back to her mixing bowl. "You have been restless ever since you came to the house. Is there something wrong?" Brett shakes his head, says _no_ again. "Well then, let us keep baking. I do not like this skinny body; you look like a twig. Let Nana feed you while you're here."

Brett laughs, stamping down the rush of unbridled relief surging through his blood. Crisis narrowly averted. Thank god and every deity out there.

They get to working quietly again. Soon enough, the kitchen counter is laden with brownies and cookies and tarts, some to be eaten during the Christmas party Helen's planning in a few days. Brett still can't believe that's a thing. At least it's giving him and Eddy pressure to practice. Without it, he thinks he might've never touched his violin the entire stay here, not once. Some would say that would be an act of sacrilege, but it's shamefully true.

He's been staring longingly at the chocolate brownies for a while when Helen looks at him with a considering glance. "You know, you two younglings inspire me very much." That's a strange statement. Brett looks up at her questioningly. "You look at each other with a lot of love. Very rare to see these days. It makes my heart feel full, you know."

That—had not been anywhere close to what Brett had expected her to say. "A lot of love, huh?" He chuckles, half amusement and half anxiety as he leans down to inspect the marshmallows on top of the brownies. "More me than him, right?"

He's not fishing for third-party information, not really. He's just curious. Investigatory. What do others think of their facade? Have they been successful so far in making others think that they were—

Helen's snort jolts him back to reality. "More him than you, Little Yang. I am sorry. He has the— _aiyah_ , what do you children call it nowadays? _Heart eyes_ , and then that curse word about having intimate relations with someone's mama?" The old woman shakes her head. "Rather—he looks at you like you are the Sibelius concerto incarnate. Does that make any sense? Ach, I am getting old."

He doesn't quite know which part of that whole thing to tackle first, so the autopilot of his brain goes with: "Where did you learn the heart eyes thing, grandmamma?"

"I use the Facebook, I told you. I know memes now." She should not sound that smug discussing her newfound knowledge of the internet's intricacies, but Brett's too far gone to call her out, too caught on _he looks at you like you're the Sibelius concerto incarnate_ , because really, what the fuck. What the _fuck._

Does his grandmother even know the context of the Sibelius violin concerto when applied to Eddy? Does she know that of all the pieces they've learned and performed all these years at the con, the Sibelius violin concerto is and has always been Eddy's favorite piece? A piece he considers belo— _No._

(No, no, no. He is _not_ going to go there.)

His head hurts just thinking about this whole thing. God, had he known this was going to happen to him here, he would've audibly begged to go upstairs with his best friend earlier. Makes him sound like a petulant kid, but _god_ , he really would've.

"Yeah. Yeah. That's, uh." Brett clears his throat, stares hard at the eggshells lining his side of the table. "That's really good, grandmamma."

If Helen's at all aware of his inner meltdown, she mercifully pays no outward attention to it. "What I am saying is—you really are lucky to have Edward, idiot boy. You both are very lucky to have each other." The gleam in her eyes dims, then, as her expression morphs into something unreadable. "Do not let him slip away."

Brett coughs, turning away so she doesn't see what must be an absolute mess of emotions on his face. Shit, he can't handle this, not right now. "Of course not, Nana," he forces himself to chuckle, throwing a hand out towards the baked goods on the nearby flat surfaces. "After all, he won't leave me with these tasty treats I can use to keep him around, right?"

When he lifts his gaze to catch Helen's gaze, there's a look of pity, of sad understanding in her eyes. The look sends a heavy stone hurtling through his throat, closing up his windpipe. "Sometimes it takes a little more heart work than that, dearie."

And, well. He doesn't know what to say to that.

"These are for Eddy," he says, carefully not looking at his grandmother as he begins to set aside a tray of biscuits and some icing, carefully not mentioning anything about how the biscuits are called _coffee kisses_ , formally speaking. "Don't give them away to your guests, please."

Helen smiles, doesn't say anything in reply.

• • •

When you hear something along the lines of _your best-friend-slash-fake-boyfriend looks at you like the piece he considers the best one on the planet suddenly got human skin and a body and started walking around_ , it changes something in you. Brett isn't quite sure what exactly has changed, but all he knows is that _something_ has. There's a strange ache simmering in the floodwaters of his stomach, just there. It's stressing him the fuck out.

He's so zonked out that he barely registers the radio chattering away about weather news— _Something about heavy snowfall? A storm warning? Whatever_ —on his way through the halls to find Eddy. He's distracted enough not to notice the chocolates in his friend's grasp until he's hovering right above his shoulder.

"Nice Hershey's," he tells him, because Hershey's chocolates really are nice, but _then._

Eddy thinks it's a gift of sorts. Eddy thinks it's from a _secret admirer_.

Something in Brett's chest plummets.

(It doesn't take much intellect to know this: shitty homemade coffee kisses don't hold a candle to perfect, branded chocolate kisses now, do they?)

Brett tells him he doesn't share, which is quite possibly the most embarrassing thing he's ever said in his entire life, and he's just about ready to hurl himself through the window and into the snow, but then Eddy laughs. Says nothing of it. Offers to share his chocolates. Calls him his _boyfriend_.

Fuck, but Brett's ecstatic at that, heart jumping through his throat as Eddy tilts his head back and laughs and laughs and laughs. The sun's warm and bright despite the snowflakes in the sky and the clouds rumbling in the distance, and he knows it's because he's here with Eddy. It's because they're here _together_.

The joy lasts throughout the day, fuel for the vehicle of his thoughts until they get into bed and Brett begins to doubt, guilt twisting his words into questions he probably shouldn't even be thinking about, but then.

He asks permission, skin against skin. He twines their fingers together, and they hold.

_There's no living my best life without you. You gotta know that, right?_

The organ in his chest shivers, trembles with the knowing.

_Not without you._

"Incorrigible," he says, but he's still breathless, paper lungs trying not to catch fire on the matchstick spark of those words.

_Not without you._

And god, but there is something. There's something different about Brett, and for the life of him, Brett can't quite figure out what exactly _it_ is.

He waits until Eddy's asleep, breath evened out and limbs in repose, and then he moves his palm back onto his friend's hand, thumb lightly resting against Eddy's pulse point.

The Pillow Wall's been breached. No one has to know.

• • •

He wakes up the next morning a hell of a lot later than he had been planning to wake up, but nevertheless, Brett tumbles down the stairs with the grace of a newly born gazelle.

"Good morning," he calls to Eddy down the hall, who startles and turns around hurriedly to face him.

"Hey, Brett," Eddy replies, and then another head pops out from behind him, and it's Charles, grinning and waving at him with a _good morning_ of his own. There's a slight blush to Eddy's cheeks.

Uh, okay. Right then.

This time around, Charles is there at the breakfast table with them, seating himself next to Helen and taking control of the spoken topics at hand in the way only a social butterfly can. Brett's all for making his grandmother happy, sure. He's all for the laughter and the jokes and the amusing discussions he has with the ginger-haired man. What he is _not_ all for are the glances.

He's not sure if the glances are meant to be subtle at all, and if they actually are, then the two men aren't making much of an effort at it. Eddy keeps looking over to Charles and then looking away with a strange expression on his face; Charles doesn't even bother concealing the fact that he's been staring at Eddy half the time; they both visibly react when their gazes connect, Eddy's cheeks flushing and Charles' smirk growing.

It's like—it's as if they're in on a secret. Brett's the outsider, Brett's the third wheel on this bicycle ride, and goddamn, but he is not prepared for how much it _hurts_.

No one's been like that with Eddy before. That's—that's his place, right there. That's the place Brett's been occupying for the last decade or so.

 _Evidently not anymore_ , he thinks with no small amount of bitterness, grinding his teeth when Charles tells a joke that makes Eddy's eyes sparkle in glee.

(The fact that Eddy's seated himself so close to him, the press of his leg warm against Brett's own, is a small relief.)

It gets even worse when Charles follows them into their practice session, sitting down on the couch next to the window and grinning wide, all eyes for Eddy and Eddy alone. It's becoming increasingly apparent to Brett just how much Charles has been hanging around them, hovering at the edge of their peripheries, and maybe Brett's just too caught up in Eddy's company to notice, but he is definitely noticing it now.

Kinda hard not to, considering the fact that Charles hasn't looked at anything other than Brett's best friend for the last five minutes, give or take. That might not mean anything, but really, it's kind of—

Oh, god. Is _Charles_ Eddy's secret admirer, gifter of Hershey's chocolates and shit?

The realization leaves him a little weak in the knees, and he slumps down into the nearby chair. Fuck, but it makes sense, though. It makes so much fucking sense.

Immediately as Brett's spine touches the back of the chair, Eddy's stepped forward, tilting his head with a faintly worried look in his eyes. "You okay?"

"Just peachy."

"You're doing great, Brett," Charles encourages him, which, honestly: _not helping at all_.

Still—Brett's not uncivilized. "Thanks," he says, sending a tight smile in the other man's direction before turning to Eddy. "I'm fine. Just give me a minute and then let's go over that phrase again."

"Okay." Eddy stares at him for a moment, and then walks back to the music stand. Charles stands up from his seat, saunters over to where the other man is standing and points out something on the sheet music, said too low for Brett to hear from this distance.

Eddy's laughter fills the room. There's something trying to crawl up Brett's throat. Why the hell does he feel like absolute shit?

One word curls at the edge of his tongue, waiting to take flight, but he doesn't say it. He doesn't want to say it; he doesn't want to cast it out of his mouth and the imaginary confines of his brain and make it real.

He doesn't want to know it yet, because he can't _un_ know it, and knowing it will hurt. Knowing it will send him down the path of no return. He can't know it yet, because it will ruin him.

(And it hurts all the more when he isn't sure that there will be anything to catch him when he falls.)

"Let's start from bar fifteen," Brett says, and then says nothing altogether.


	13. CHAPTER TWELVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all! sorry for the delay, but here it is! <3 hopefully will finish it before or during christmas time; the fic's been a year in the making already XD

It feels as if his world is on the precipice of a knife, or perhaps a craggy clifftop hanging over a tumultuous sea of violas. Air is crystallized in his lungs, frozen and clammy against the walls of his chest.

Funny, how everything so carefully constructed can come crashing down around his ears with a single query, inadvertently aimed straight at the very heart of him. Really fucking funny, that.

 _You and Brett aren't_ really _together, right?_

He feels himself grow cold. Charles is watching him absorb the question with a strange smile on his face. With every millisecond that goes by without anything said in defense of his supposed _relationship_ with his best friend, Eddy's probably slowly digging his own grave.

In the end, he settles for deflection, because he may be fucked at this point in time, but there is no way he's letting things go up in flames without doing anything to salvage the situation. There's still their prize to consider, waiting for them at the end of this. He's not about to let Brett down just yet by falling short just before the finish line.

"You're being very presumptuous," Eddy says. Very casually.

"Am I really?" The red-haired man tilts his head, narrows his eyes at him. "You don't really act like you're lovers, at least when Nana's not around." He pauses. "Or, well. _You_ do, but _he_ doesn't," Charles continues, and _shit_ , that is a really low blow. Eddy looks away, fixes his gaze on the window pane, the ice crawling up the sill. "Maybe he doesn't _want_ to feel it."

And, well. What do you say to your worst fears realized, spelled out word for word in front of you? What do you say when the faint flicker of hope you've been unknowingly keeping alive at the candlewick of your heart begins to fade away?

He can pretend. He's been doing it so well so far; he can do this much. Eddy frowns at the other man thunderously. "That's not funny."

Charles pouts. "No?"

"No."

"So what's the deal, then? Are you guys playing at something?"

Eddy takes a deep breath. Releases it. "We're not playing at anything. We don't act like lovers because that's just how we are." ( _It's just how we'll always be, because we're never crossing that line. Don't remind me, please, god, I—)_ "I don't care what he may or may not be showing the world about loving me, because I know he's mine. He's _mine_ , and that's—that's just," and here, his voice fails him.

_He's mine._ ****

He clamps his mouth shut, but the damage had already been done. There's understanding dawning in those eyes now, and Eddy knows the jig is up. "You're in love with him, then."

He's never once confessed this to someone he barely knows, but here, miles away from everything he knows and stuck defending a supposed love for him that doesn't exist in the heart he wants it to, Eddy finds himself courageous. "Yeah," he says, resolute. Like he's been waiting a decade to say it out loud. Maybe he has. "I am."

Silence, but for the wind rustling outside.

"I see." Charles clears his throat, awkwardly shifts his weight from one foot to another. "He doesn't deserve you. And _nope_ ," he snaps a hand to stop the instinctual defense, and Eddy closes his mouth back up, "don't even try to convince me otherwise. Your opinion isn't objective, lover boy."

"Well, I mean," Eddy trails off, smiles unrepentantly because _hey_. "That _is_ the man I love you're speaking of."

Charles shrugs. "Still. But—he's a very lucky man for someone like you to love him without much of anything you want in return." He doesn't know what to say in response to that, and so he opts to nod wordlessly. "I know when I'm beaten, but if you ever find it in yourself one day to look for someone new and _probably_ better? Just let me know."

Fuck, if it were only _that_ easy. "I'll _probably_ think about it, Charles. No promises, though—I'm pretty much a sucker for my guy." Eddy shoves his hands in his pockets, suddenly remembering the whole debacle that had led to the current conversation. "But, uh. I really am sorry."

"Nah, don't apologize. It's all good." Charles waves a dismissive hand at him, smiling all the while. "Besides, I'm sure I'll feel better when I make Mister Yang squirm a bit. He looks so fucking funny when he's jealous."

"I don't like what you're planning." God, but there's something in him that wants to see what that might look like. A little spark of curiosity, a little hint of selfishness: _what would Brett Yang look like if he were jealous over Eddy Chen?_ It might just be all pretend on Brett's part, with the whole fake dating thing, but it's a tantalizing thought.

"Hey, c'mon, don't worry! This is me being helpful, see? You don't need to know anything, and I won't do anything _untoward_." Charles grins, pats him on the shoulder in a decidedly platonic way, which is something he can appreciate. "Just sit back and watch the sparks fly."

Eddy says nothing, only smiles in reply. There's a jab of wistfulness somewhere along his ribcage, but it's so minute, he can almost ignore it.

• • •

True to his word, Charles doesn't do anything more than share a few dirty jokes here, a sensuous glance there. It doesn't even take much to respond in kind with flushed cheeks and genuine laughter, because hell, the ginger-haired man really does have a wicked sense of humor.

He's only got eyes for Brett, however.

He _knows_ his best friend like the back of his hand, like a nursery rhyme chanted over and over again: muscle memory. There is legitimate amusement in Brett's visage, his laughter riotous and his eyes crinkling. Still, there is an underlying edge to his words. There's a small anxious tic curling at the edge of his lip. Eddy presses his leg against the other man's own nonchalantly in support of—whatever on earth is happening.

They move to another room to practice their duet after breakfast, and lo and behold, Charles saunters his way into the room with them, continuing his one man show of doting debonair, and okay, there's something different this time in Brett's expression. Eddy doesn't want to try and name the emotion the first time around, but Charles names it out loud for him, molds it into reality: a crystalline thought hanging in the air between them.

"Shit, dude," the man whispers lowly, words intended for Eddy's ears alone, but just in case Brett's ears are sharper than he knows, he compensates with a particularly forceful ricochet. "He looks positively green with envy; this is _amazing_."

And so he does. _Fuck._

A dilemma: Eddy has no clue what to do with the fact that Brett's gaze is minutes and a miracle away from setting Charles on fire. _Very good acting_ , he thinks very hard at the thunderstorm brewing on his best friend's brow. Almost enough to convince _him_ that Brett's giving a genuine performance, that he really _is_ thinking of imaginary bodily harm just because someone's giving Eddy a whole lot of undue attention, coming just a little bit too close.

_What would Brett Yang look like if he were jealous over Eddy Chen?_

Like he's an angry tornado encased in human flesh. It's fucking attractive, is what it is, and Eddy's trying his damnedest to pretend he isn't getting affected, pretend he isn't just the teensiest bit _giddy_.

The unsubtle winking Charles keeps sending his way isn't helpful _at all_.

It all comes to a head when Brett suddenly throws himself down on a chair, looking a little bit shell shocked. Eddy leaps to attention, moving over to check up on him, because the charade might be a little fun, but his best friend's wellbeing is of the highest importance. He is waved away though— _just peachy_ —and then they resume again from bar fifteen. When Eddy drops off to let Brett play his solo part, though, the red-haired predator pounces.

"That was awesome," Charles exclaims, winding an arm around Eddy's shoulder, suddenly very present and _there_ within his personal space. "Eddy, that was wonderful; I have no complaints. But can I suggest something? Don't you think you guys could do a little—"

Brett's martelé on the next phrase is so violent, Eddy's half-worried he'd snap a string. It's done in the same way one would slam a glass on the bar in a lonely club at three in the morning: fed up, overflowing, bruised.

Something in Eddy's gut trembles at the fact.

Charles is startled enough to jump back a few steps, which is good, because Brett's setting his violin down and moving forward with unreadable, strangely determined purpose, and Eddy's probably about to get thrown out the window for allowing Charles' flirtatious brand of third-wheeling to continue unhindered, but _then_.

"It's true. _You_ really are wonderful," Brett tells him, moving closer to grab his face, pulling it down to seal their mouths together.

 _This_ kiss makes all the other chaste cheek pecks and closed-lip touches from their performances out on the town pale in comparison, blinding sun against glittering stars. Just like that first blistering kiss in Nana's arts and crafts room, this kiss burns like fire. Like longing starlight.

Eddy feels himself cast afloat in the warm dampness of Brett's mouth, a lone buoy in a traitorous sea with nothing to hold onto. His fingers grip desperately at Brett's arm, the crook of his elbow; he has to stoop down to chase that mouth when it seems like it's about to move away.

Brett's thumb strokes against his cheek. God, but the simplest of actions make him shiver from head to toe.

It ends all too soon, this union. Brett doesn't immediately step back and away, though: his hand remains at Eddy's cheek, the other clinging to Eddy's wrist, near the point where his pulse is frantically racing. _God, please don't let him feel it_.

"Y-you _sure_ you're okay?" His voice wobbles unsteadily all throughout that question.

"Just peachy," Brett repeats, slightly breathless, pupils blown wide and dark as sin. _Fuck,_ a desperately flailing thought in Eddy's mind shrieks, _fuck,_ _I did that_.

There's a wolf-whistle suddenly, shattering the ache-clenched moment, and they finally break apart like they've been burned. Eddy had almost forgotten Charles had been in the room with them all this time. "That was hot," the man himself quips, fanning himself.

Brett takes one long look at him and then leaves the room, mumbling out an excuse about going to the bathroom. Or something. Eddy's still a little loopy in the aftermath.

"Oh- _ho_ , my god." Charles is smiling like the Cheshire cat. Goddamn. "Well, I'm satisfied with my accomplishments for today. He definitely squirmed, alright." He looks over at the other man and smirks. "How are _you_ feeling?"

There is no way in hell Eddy's ever going to give voice to the mangled gibberish flying around his brain, and so he just shrugs helplessly. Charles, ever the wildchild instigator, throws his head back and laughs.

• • •

The storm being reported on the radio seems to be making its slow approach, the winds and snow outside beginning to fall heavily on Lamerra. Helen advises them not to go outside for now, and so they're relaxing in their room together when the question is asked. It throws Eddy off more than the surprise Brett-initiated kiss had, which is a testament to how far out of left field it's come from.

"Have you ever been in love with anyone?"

(A hell of a question unknowingly asked.)

 _You, you fucking bastard, who else?_ The words thankfully do _not_ spill out of Eddy's mouth unchecked. He does nearly choke on his spit, however. Rolling over on the bed to face the man seated in the armchair by the window, Eddy raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean? What brings this question up?"

"Just curious, I guess." Brett's tone is hesitant, but ultimately unreadable. Where on earth is he going with this line of inquiry? "I'm not—intruding on anything right?"

"No, we already established this was fine last night. Calm down, man. It's all good."

"Yeah, but what if you met someone? Out here or—something."

 _The fuck?_ "Out _here_?" Eddy looks around the room with a look of incredulity, waving a hand out in emphasis. "When I'm here with you on our little mission? Really?"

"Yeah, alright, nevermind." Brett snorts, Eddy laughs; it means _you're just worried, I know, no harm done._ There's a few minutes of silence, and Eddy's just about to doze off when the conversation unexpectedly continues: "You didn't answer my question, though."

Ah, _shit._

"Well," he trails off, staring pointedly up at the ceiling, the spider-web cracks in the old varnish. He doesn't want to lie, not to Brett, but _god_ , can he even say anything that won't be immediately incriminating? Or maybe—maybe this is his chance to unburden himself a bit, cast a decade's worth of secrets down at the altar of Brett's feet without him even knowing.

An indirect confession. Good fucking plan.

Eddy clears his throat. "I, uh, did love someone." Yeah, there: _past tense_. Brett will never figure it out. "Still do a little bit even now, but. Yeah. He's, um."

Brett looks over at him. " _He_?"

There's no judgement in that clarification, only curiosity. Besides, Eddy knows full well that Brett swings both ways. Stamping down the faint jealousy curling in his gut, Eddy confirms this. "Yeah, _he_." And then, well.

How do you go about describing a person to their face without them knowing you're talking about them? It's a fucking minefield, really.

"He's," _all I ever wanted and will ever want, always_. Eddy clenches and unclenches his fists. Not off to a great start already. Something simple, first. Something true.

Take two.

"He's very brave. Bold. Real clever. Has a way with words. Likes to cause trouble, but he gets us out of it most times too." A besotted smile sneaks its way onto Eddy's lips, unbidden. "He's—really talented with the violin. Way more talented than me, even, but I can't ever tell him that. Not because his head will swell up, but because he'll deny it, that fucker. He's more humble than he knows, always pointing the spotlight at me when it should be on him, and it's kinda unbelievable." A pause to catch his breath, draw the longing back in before it overwhelms him. "He knows me," _more than anyone else_ , but Eddy shakes his head, _too obvious_ , "more than most. I can be myself around him. I don't have to pretend to be anyone else than who I am. That's really the thing I love most about him."

(It doesn't occur to him to frame this all in the past, _loved_ instead of _love_. That in itself is telling to any outsider looking in.)

There's stillness in the aftermatch. Eddy takes a few slow breaths before he musters up the courage to look Brett in the eye. There's something unspooled in his gaze, the way he blinks slowly as if absorbing the information and processing what he should feel about it in conclusion.

Because he doesn't want to see what that conclusion might be, and also because he's a sucker for pain, Eddy points the question back at his best friend: "So? Have _you_ ever been in love with anyone?"

Brett jolts a bit, startled. "Oh, uh. No. Or I don't know," he says, and hell, there it is. There's the answer to the question, the only question he's ever had ever. His fears are staring him in the eye. The candle in his chest begins to melt, hot wax against the rib. Eddy turns his gaze back to the ceiling and bites his lip hard enough to bleed.

The shorter man continues, unknowingly merciless."I've never really thought about it. I've liked people here and there, dated around, but I can't really—I can't really say I was in love with anybody. I think."

 _Fucking hell on a stick_. "So what would it take for someone to be loved, for you?" Eddy closes his eyes, surreptitiously licks the crimson drops off his teeth. _What would it take for you to possibly love me too?_ "What would make you love someone, you think?"

"I don't know," Brett sighs, leaning his head against the back of the armchair. "Someone dependable, I think. Thoughtful. Someone who'll listen to my bullshit and won't think me less for it. Someone who'll be there when I need them, who'll let me be weak with them. Someone who—"

The words cut off there. Eddy waits for a continuation, anything, but with nothing forthcoming, he turns and looks over, and stares.

There's something raw on Brett's face, like an egg cracked open on gritty cement. His eyes are wide, gaze unfocused, mouth fallen open, and oh lord, Eddy knows that look. _Realization_. It takes everything in him not to jump up and shake those beloved shoulders and scream _what did you realize, what did you learn, tell me, who are you thinking about right at this moment?_

"You okay?" He offers the question like an olive branch.

"Yeah," Brett says, finally, with a breathless chuckle that's _this_ close to sounding manic. Eddy's hands itch to hold him. "It's nothing, sorry. Lost myself for a moment there."

He'd sell an internal organ— _two_ internal organs to see into Brett's thoughts right at this moment. Seeing as that's not possible, Eddy opts to laugh instead. "Right, okay. Okay, cool. That was very, uh, informative."

"Yeah." Brett wipes at his mouth and stands up. "I gotta go check on Nana, see if she needed me for something, if that's okay?"

"Oh, yeah, sure, go ahead," he says, waving a hand to shoo him away. Brett smiles, begins to move towards the door. Eddy closes his eyes; he's expecting the other man to just waltz out the door without anything more, but then.

There's warm fingers brushing his hair away from his temple. A slight press of lips against his forehead. Eddy blinks his eyes open in shock.

Brett doesn't have the fucking decency to look back at him over his shoulder after that devastating blow to his already crumbling composure, which, _fine_. He can do whatever he wants. Whatever makes him want to start giving Eddy forehead kisses like it's no big deal: it's cool, it's all _fine_.

Eddy closes his eyes again and tries to think of nothing. Nothing at all.

He's okay. He's okay.

• • •

(He is _not_ okay.)

"Belle," he whispers wretchedly into the phone cradled in the crook of his neck as he curls up in bed, watching the white landscape shift and transform into indiscernible shapes beyond the frosted glass.

The sigh rings out from the other side of the world, crawling deep into the chest of him. "Oh, Eddy," his sister tells him, and she stays on the line, and she listens.

(Outside, the storm rages in the distance. It looms, waiting in the wings.)


	14. CHAPTER THIRTEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a bid to finish my longfics before the year ends so i can start writing new ones, I'll be updating in regular intervals! The next chapter will be up by next week. You can also check my update schedule tab over at my carrd to keep track of fic updates! https://merridian.carrd.co/

What do you do when everything you’ve ever known is crumbling down all around you, stone-walls of Jericho tumbling at the sound of the trumpets, a blaring tune of realization, a reckoning all on their own? What do you do when you’ve missed something so integral, so necessary to the very architecture of yourself, and you’ve only just found it, foundations shaking in the aftermath? What do you do then?

This is what Brett does: he locks himself in the bathroom, knees pulled up to his chest as he sits on the cold tiles, and tries his best not to cry like a fucking baby. He is not succeeding _at all_.

(Let’s go back in time a bit, cast a little more light on the matter. This revelation has been a decade in the making.)

  
• • •

History is a whirlwind of memories. When you look at things through the rose-stained glass, the final piece of a puzzle long left incomplete, you see them in a new light. You realize what you’ve been missing all this time.

Brett is ten when he first meets Eddy Chen. He’s stressing over algebra, chewing at the end of his pencil when someone taps him on the shoulder and asks to borrow an eraser _and please not the one you’re biting, please_. He doesn’t know it yet, but the gangly boy with the mullet sitting next to him in maths tutoring is about to become the cornerstone of his life, the axis upon which his world spins.

They say goodbye to each other on Friday afternoon. They meet again on Saturday morning, standing on opposite sides of the room for music classes. Even then, Eddy grins wide at the sight of him, waving his spindly arm in the air like a windmill in greeting. Even then, Brett realizes there just might be a little bit of destiny where the two of them are concerned. He decides he doesn’t give a fuck about destiny or fate or whatever, as long as he can keep this kid near him for the rest of his life.

They grow up together. They both forsake the traditional paths their parents set out for them; they both agree to support each other’s dreams no matter what happens. Nana is younger, here in his memories: smuggling CDs and sheet music for them from her workplace, baking them oatmeal cookies and cinnamon buns as a reward whenever they manage to impress her with their playing. On summer nights spent at each other’s houses, they sleep together on the same bed, sweat-sticky under the blankets. On winter mornings spent without classes to hamper their practice time, they whittle their free days away playing video games and performing bedroom concertos with Belle. They spend birthdays together, school breaks together, holidays together. Here, they become inseparable.

When Brett is accepted into the Conservatorium of Music, Eddy makes plans to follow in his footsteps. In this first year alone at uni, Brett throws himself into practicing with reckless abandon, not giving time for anything but his violin because he’s in wait. All he cares about is getting better while he’s biding his time, waiting until Eddy can join him. Brett throws the other man a party when he finally enters the Con a year later, introduces him to all his friends so they won’t ever have to maintain separate social circles.

They discover a little bit more of who they are and who they will come to be, in uni. They broaden their horizons with new music pieces, new friends, new romantic entanglements. Every new partner takes a little slice away from their shared time, but they always end up coming back to each other: magnetic north and south, twin planets spinning within their shared gravity.

Eddy takes care of Brett during morning hangovers, writes him study notes for theory exams, buys him bubble tea on sweltering Brisbane afternoons. Brett drags Eddy out to parties, gifts him new strings everytime he snaps one, teaches him how to come out of his shell.

Brett skips an important concert of his to watch Eddy’s, to cheer him on. Eddy finds him drunk on the street hours following the afterparty and brings him home safe and sound.

Eddy Chen has permeated every aspect of Brett Yang’s life—he is inextricable, now: like marrow in the bone, veins in the heart.

History is a whirlwind of memories. Here is your best friend at the center of the storm. Here is a whole lifetime of togetherness, and you still want more.

(When he looks back at things, sees the bigger picture, it’s incriminating. Undeniable. He’d been blind to it for years and years and years. Now, it’s an echo that never ceases: _how did you not see it? How did you not figure that out for so long?_ )

• • •

He doesn’t yet know The Truth when he kisses Eddy on his own volition, but maybe that’s the whole point of it, right? He hadn’t known, but it had been instinctual.

(If he’s going to be really honest with himself—that instinct? Not the first time it’s reared its head.)

It isn’t about the fake relationship thing, really. Not at all. The idea of having to pretend to be jealous and staking a claim over his boyfriend doesn’t even cross his mind. All he’s thinking about is the way Charles is looking at Eddy, all admiration and flirtation and something he cannot allow, will not abide.

When the other man touches him, Brett sees red.

The kiss is possessive, fierce, unyielding. He pours his frustration into the union of their mouths, an unnamable emotion unspooling itself within the crumbling wreckage of his chest. He steps back, watches Eddy stare back at him with wide eyes, and something in him comes even more undone.

Jealousy exposes the shattered insides of yourself that you’d want to hide. See the fly in the ointment. See the grit on the lens. Charles had revealed the darkest parts of him with only an arm thrown over a shoulder to show for it. Fucking ridiculous. Brett has to get the hell out of dodge immediately, before he does anything else he might regret later on.

( _Are you sure you’re okay_? Well, he’s not. But he’d like to pretend anyway. _Just peachy_.)

It’s made even worse later on, when they’re alone and there’s no audience hovering in the wings. Their bedroom is their personal stage now, and it’s desperation fueling Brett’s performance, this final act before—before it all ends. It really had been only a matter of time.

 _Have you ever been in love with anyone,_ he asks.

 _I did love someone_ , Eddy answers. _Still do a little bit even now,_ and god, maybe Brett’s just now realizing hearing this might hurt, but he hadn’t thought it’d hurt _this_ much.

The words swirl together like the snowflakes just outside their window. Eddy had been in love (still is). Eddy had been in love with a man (whoever he is). Eddy had been in love with someone brave and bold and clever and talented and _everything_ Brett is not. He _knows_ this, had expected it on some level; it doesn’t make it easier to swallow down.

It’s irrational to be envious of someone he doesn’t know. Unfair, even: what does a stranger care about Brett Yang? What does a stranger care about the fact that Brett Yang is ruined because of their mere existence as the focal point of one Eddy Chen?

His best friend turns the question back on him, and okay, look: he can act. He knows he can act. He’s been faking it ‘til he can make it for so long. When he says he hasn’t been in love with anyone, he pretends it’s the whole truth, but it’s only really the half of it.

 _I’ve never been in love before, but I could be_. _I’ve never thought about it only because I don’t want to hurt when I realize it._

He’d begun listing out characteristics. Dependable. Thoughtful. A listener, a companion, a pillar of strength where everything else is fraying strings of thread. Brett could love someone like that, but they’re a rare breed. The closest thing he has to that imagined pinnacle is—

Right there. Right fucking there in front of him.

And the world had stopped in its tracks. All the air, gone.

And the last piece of a puzzle he’d spent a near lifetime putting together finally falls into place.

He loves him. He _loves_ him.

Brett Yang is in love with Eddy Chen.

(He’s been dancing on the edge of this precipice ever since that first offer of a pencil during maths tutoring, the answering cheeky grin he’d thought sparkled like the fucking stars. He hadn’t called it love then, not yet. He’d thought it something else, something more than the barebones truth that it is.

But maybe it really _is_ as simple as that. For a four letter word, it carries so much goddamn weight.)

Brett’s heart and soul may have frozen in time, but the world outside his body continues on. Eddy blinks at him, his expression slowly shifting into confusion, and _nope_ , that’s that, Brett’s done.

He gives the most important person in the world a light kiss on the forehead, hands shaking against that beloved face, and flees the room.

• • •

It’s debilitating. It really is.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself after the whole bathroom meltdown incident. He goes to hide in the sitting room next, watching his grandmother try her hand at needlework beside the fireplace. She raises an eyebrow at him when he enters, but she doesn’t say anything, thank god. Brett is many things, but he is _not_ strong enough to discuss the hurricane ravaging the shores of his heart right now. No thank you.

He buries himself into the cushioned folds couch, throws a thick blanket over himself and tries not to think of anything. His heartbeat is loud in his ears; he uses the soft clicking noises of the knitting needle and the crackle of the firewood to steady himself. _Steady on, steady on_.

And so maybe the distraction is why he doesn’t get the chance to escape when Eddy himself walks through the doorway a few minutes later.

“Hello, Edward,” Helen greets the new occupant of the room, and Brett flings the blanket over his head, body strung tight and heart thrumming like a livewire. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Thankfully, the sudden movement doesn’t seem to be noticed by Eddy, covered as he is by the back of the couch. “Hey, Nana.” There’s a pause. “Is, uh—do you know where Brett might’ve gone?”

She only hums in reply, which is like, _what the fuck._ Brett doesn’t know whether to be distressed or grateful.

“Oh, uh.” Brett doesn’t even need to look to know Eddy’s shuffling in place, awkwardness tugging his lip down and furrowing his eyebrows. Goddamnit, he is so far gone. “Never mind. What are you doing over there?”

“I am thinking of knitting my grandson a scarf, maybe. I do not know what happened to him or what kind of food his parents have been feeding him, but he is so weak against the cold.”

Eddy chuckles. “Ah, yeah, he’s a bit sensitive. I like to make sure the thermostat’s working its magic when it gets too cold.” His breathing catches in his throat; he hadn’t known Eddy had been the one fiddling with the heater in their dorm room. Just another one of those little things that go undiscussed, apparently, because they already go without saying.

They’re so good at taking care of each other. It’s muscle memory now.

(And so what does that mean, then? Is it the love he expects to receive or the love he wants to believe in? Brett doesn’t know.)

“How very sweet. You are a very good young man, Edward,” Helen tells him, a smile in her voice. “I am very happy that you are here, but I hope Brett has not just bullied you into joining us for the holidays.”

“It’s okay, Nana. I didn’t have anywhere else to be anyway. And—I wanted to be here. For him.” There’s silence for a moment, and then, softly: “He asked, so. I had to.”

Brett shuts his eyes against those words, heartsick, his lungs thrown for a loop—

“It is not just because of the manuscripts I promised him, yes?”

—and they pop right back open again.


	15. CHAPTER FOURTEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, but here it is in a double update with color me in gold! <3

Truth be told, all this stress can’t possibly be good for his heart in the long run. The organ’s been toiling overtime to compensate; it’ll need a good long rest before it can work all proper again.

It’s the way it seizes up in his chest, crawls up into the pit of his throat when the question registers in his forehead-kiss-addled brain. Eddy freezes, much like a deer in headlights, and he’s not sure he’ll survive the impact.

Nana doesn’t even look up from her knitting to observe the panic she’s induced. “It is not, yes?”

“No,” he tells her. It’s more a whimper than anything else, but at least he’s _responded_.

All their hard work—albeit less than genuine—over the past few days, and _this_ is where it’s going to die an embarrassing, agonizing death? There’s no way. He won’t allow it. Eddy sucks in air through his teeth, prepares himself to explain, to expound, to (falsely) lay it out in no uncertain terms that they’re not just doing this for the promised rewards she’d dangled in front of their noses, carrots on sticks, and—

“Okay.”

A pause, in which Helen begins to idly hum Clair de Lune, the notes creaking under the weight of her wizened voice. Eddy’s lungs seem to have forgotten how to breathe, those faulty things. “ _Okay_?”

“Yes. _Okay_.” She looks up at him, and the twinkle in her eyes is mischievous but altogether fond. “I know the manuscripts are very enticing. They are good prizes, no? Good motivation. But you came for my grandson, first and foremost. You came for _him_.” A brilliant smile stretches across her lips. “That is more than okay in my books.”

And, well, when she puts it _that_ way.

Fuck.

(There’s a noise from somewhere near the couch that’s out of place here, but he’s too busy having an internal freakout to really pay it much attention.)

After a few more moments of silent gaping on his part, Helen nods at her half-finished masterpiece, bundling up the needles and yarn to her chest as she moves to the door. She stops next to him on her way out, patting his shoulder gently. “You are a good man, Edward. I know the way forward may not look very clear now, but trust in yourself. In your heart. It will know what to do.” With that parting shot lingering in the air between them and one last sunny grin, she takes her leave of the premises. Eddy’s left to stare after her in a silent moment of shock.

Well. Goddamnit. He’s _that_ transparent, then. She’d taken one look at him and known that whatever it is he’s done, he’s done it for Brett. Nevermind the manuscripts or whatever, apparently; his _feelings_ are what she’d honed in on. _Shit on a stick_.

But—this is a good thing, right? Nana doesn’t seem to know anything about their fake relationship, and so their charade continues. They can make it through this production relatively unscathed with their hard-won rewards tucked tight under their armpits on the way back home. Good. A-okay. Nothing wrong with that, no siree.

(How much more of this can he take?)

His feet quietly lead him towards the couch, and all at once, the fight goes out of him, causing him to fall down onto the cushions. He lands on something soft but decisively _not_ fabric. Fleshy. _What the_ —“Ow, fuck!”

“Brett?” Eddy jumps away, watches a familiar crown of hair peek from under the blanket. Shit, he’d been too distracted to notice the human right under his ass before taking a seat? That fact doesn’t bode well _at all_. “The hell are you doing here?”

“I’m taking a nap,” comes the indignant reply. Brett swipes a hand over his eyes, shifting his glasses up his forehead. “Or. Well. I _was_.”

God, what a mess. Eddy gives him a placating smile, opting to perch on the armchair as he watches the other man wobble into a seating position with the uneasy grace of a baby deer. “Sorry I sat on you.” His attention’s snagged by the particular word choice. _Was_. So, does that mean: “You heard us?”

“Yeah. A bit. I dunno.” Brett looks away, stares at the edges of the giant rug underneath their feet for a moment before he turns back, a tiny smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Great acting, by the way. For all that Nana’s been trying to interrogate us, she doesn’t suspect a thing.”

All at once, he remembers himself, remembers the circumstances they’ve placed themselves in, and oh, but that sends a hot lance of grief straight through his chest. “Yeah. Acting. Great.”

“We could give a masterclass in acting with how awesome we are at it.”

Eddy shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “Idiot.”

“Hey, we really could.”

“I bet.”

There’s an air of awkwardness they can’t quite expunge. It takes a few moments before Brett deigns to continue, long enough for uncomfortable silence to settle in on their shoulders and make a home in the grooves between their teeth. For the first time in a long time, Eddy feels an itch under his skin to remove himself from his best friend’s presence. It had only been there for a second or two, but it had been _there_.

Brett coughs once into his fist, his gaze not quite meeting Eddy’s own as he speaks again.

(How much more of this can _they_ take?)

“So, uh, coffee?”

“Hot cocoa.”

“Ah, shit— right, you’re right. C’mon, kitchen, let’s go.”

Brett isn’t bringing up the forehead kiss or the Important Discussion that had occurred before that, and okay, fine; Eddy won’t bring it up either. He can ignore it too. He can drop the subject matter from his thoughts if his best friend doesn’t want to talk about it. He can do this much.

 _Status quo_. It’s safer here, in the not-talking, the non-discussion, the willful ignorance concerning the elephant in the room. That’s fine.

(He doesn’t think he can handle it, really: talking about it. Not right now. He’ll have to find a pillow first, something to help cushion the inevitable crash landing, because he’s responsible like that with his heart, hey?)

• • •

The skies are clear the next day, but so is Helen’s desire to have a real Christmas tree somewhere in the manor. She’d apparently made due with a plastic one last year, and it had been an experience she hadn’t wanted to repeat.

And so they find themselves wandering out into the world blanketed with snow on a mission to get the old woman what she wants. There’s a tool shed somewhere along the edge of the property, a few steps away from the treeline that extends into the wilderness surrounding Lamerra. There’s an axe in there supposedly left behind by the previous groundskeeper, or so Helen tells them; they just need to find it.

 _Easier said than done_ , Eddy thinks, looking aghast at the floor-to-ceiling towers of items precariously teetering against the walls. The shelves are overflowing; the floorboards are creaky. There’s a single flickering lightbulb hanging from loosened wires above their heads. It’s a goddamn mess, is what it is. Kinda like the innards of his heart right about now, _haha, very funny_. Fuck.

Brett’s the first one to tap out for a break, rolling back on his heels as he crouches over a stack of old newspapers. “You find the axe yet?”

“Not yet. Hold on, lemme dig through all these boxes first.” Eddy opens a shoebox, idly looking through its contents. There’s a bunch of unmarked CDs in them, probably remnants from her old workplace. “She doesn’t keep these in the attic or what?”

“I don’t know, man.” Brett sighs, wiping the sweat off his forehead as he leans against the doorframe for a moment, catching his breath. Eddy continues moving boxes around, huffing and puffing. He’s bending down to pick one up when Brett continues: “Nice view, though.”

Ah. If he hadn’t known any better, he’d think Brett was flirting. But then that would be a lovely sort of delusion, so Eddy stamps down the involuntary urge to flirt back, straightens up tall and turns his head to lift an eyebrow at Brett instead. “Of what?”

“The,” he pauses, waves a hand towards the snowy landscape in an _all-of-this_ gesture, “ _outdoors_ , of course—what else?”

Bastard. Eddy smirks, relief at the normalcy of their exchange fueling his bravado. “Woah there, boy. The woods might make a nature lover out of you yet.”

A few more moments pass until they finally find the axe, Eddy hoisting it up above his head like a trophy while Brett oohs and aahs. Together, they make their way back into the cold and go look for their green-clad prize.

There’s something about window-shopping for a tree to cut down with the love of your life that’s weirdly heartwarming. It’s the way they take serious notes on the angles of the branches sticking out, the way they measure the heights of the tree like their lives depended on it. It’s embarrassingly domestic. It takes him back to that idle daydream he once had way back then, where he’d become a lumberjack instead of a violinist in order to build his best friend a home and _maybe_ even an instrument to play on. Might make himself indispensable that way, if he played his cards right.

Sappy, but true. He’s _never_ going to tell Brett.

They finally find a grand-looking tree tall enough to fit in the mansion without its top leaves scraping the ceiling. Taking turns hacking it down, Eddy spends his downtime admiring the way Brett’s muscles bunch and tighten with every swing of the axe, just because he can. As one does.

Of course, to deflect suspicion, he mixes it up with a little friendly bullying. As one also does.

“Come on, you’re not even hitting that hard. Put your back into it.”

“I’m _trying_!”

“Try _harder_!”

(He’d been about to drop an innuendo at some point in that conversation, but clearly not the best time for anything like that. The awkwardness is an unwanted guest he has no intention of inviting back in, not now.)

It comes down, eventually. Between the two of them, they manage to tug the felled tree onto the sled that awaits them; they leave deep grooves in the snow alongside their footfalls on the way back to the manor.

“Aw, a little physical activity tire you out already?” _How am I supposed to believe in your renowned physical prowess now?_ No, he doesn’t say that next part, okay; his lips are sealed.

“Fuck you,” Brett grouses, out of breath. “Next year, I’m gonna make you tear down the tree with your bare hands, just you wait and see.”

Eddy’s about to snap back with another joke, but then. Those words: god, but they stop him short, one foot off the ground, unbalanced.

 _Next year_.

(He’s never even thought of it. Never even dared to dream this might actually become an annual thing. Something to look forward to, year after year. Something constant, something of permanence.)

 _Next year_ , he says.

Eddy clears his throat, shakes his head. “Maybe. I’d like to see you try to convince me.”

Brett rolls his eyes, slaps him hard on the shoulder, and he doesn’t even feel it, he’s so giddy.

(Hope: it’s all too crippling.)

• • •

It's been a long day. He doesn’t think his hands will forget the sting of pine needles for a good long while, really. Still, they’ve accomplished a lot, their Christmas tree standing tall and proud and lavishly decorated in the sitting room, and it’s certainly something to be proud of.

(If he’s planning to sneak his little Brett-and-Eddy figurine onto the tree later on, well. That’s only for him to know.)

Eddy hums the opening notes of the Sibelius concerto as he goes back to their shared bedroom, watching the snowflakes swirl with the wind outside the window. The skies are dark, clouds heavy and foreboding. Ominous. Good thing they’re indoors, where it’s safe and warm and—

“ _You’ve gotta be kidding me._ ”

Huh.

It doesn’t take long to assess the situation. Brett’s on a phone call with someone, shouting loud enough that his words penetrate the walls, tumbling out into the hallway. The racket makes him stop in his tracks, confusion trickling down his spine, all melted ice.

“ _I know, Belle, I know._ ” There’s a fury in his voice that isn’t normal, that claws down the length of Eddy’s throat with its nails dipped in dripping _panic_. “ _But why would I even believe that?_ ”

Wait—Belle? Like, his _sister_ Belle?

Eddy frowns at the polished tree-bark surface in front of him, quietly leaning his ear against the door. A distant part of his mind screams something about _propriety_ and _boundaries_ and not fucking listening in to conversations he’s got no right to intrude on, but the overwhelming wave of his curiosity washes it all away.

“ _Eddy’s—he’s not—he’s not. Please don’t say that._ ”

The realization dawns with an imaginary choir singing all _affrettando_. They’re talking about him. Shit, what now? What’s going on? Oh god, what is Belle even telling Brett about him?

He can’t press himself further into the door if he tries. Any more, and he’ll meld himself into the wood. What are they talking about in—

“ _Oh? Say what?_ _I know you’re in love with me, and that’s why I asked you_? _You could never refuse me anyway, so—hah, fuck._ ”Brett sneers the words out. (In anger or in pain? Is there even a difference?) “ _Yeah, right. I’d never say that out loud._ ”

Eddy reels back from the door like he’s burned. And goddamnit all, maybe he is. There’s something scorched at the edges of his heart, thin paper to open flame, and it’s threatening to swallow him whole.

 _(I know you’re in love with me, and that’s why I asked you_.)

Fuck. _Fuck._

Is this what Brett really thinks of him? A puppet pulled along by its strings, dancing to the tune of a love he apparently already fucking knew about?

 _(You could never refuse me anyway, so_.)

(Is this what it feels like to have that beating, living organ within him ripped out clean from his chest, blood splatter on the floor?)

He can hear Brett shouting again from beyond the door— _yeah, no, it’s not like that_ —but fuck, he’s heard enough already. Doesn’t care to spend another second witnessing his very being getting crushed under the tennis-shoe heel of the love of his life.

No thank you. He’s got some dignity left in him.

The flames lick at his feet, devastation in his wake as Eddy moves away from the door. There’s no one around to hear the shattered noise of heart-shards scrapped against the floor.


	16. CHAPTER FIFTEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the extended delay; I've been really busy with the working holidays and the #2SET3MIL stuff. Hopefully this longer chapter makes up for my absence! <3

Here’s the conundrum: the heart and the mouth are invariably connected, despite all good intentions to treat them as separate entities. There’s a saying about that somewhere, or maybe a verse from the Good Book. _Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks_. And god, yeah, but there’s definitely a fuckload of abundance of _something_ in his heart right now. That’s not even a question.

But falling in love, it turns out, is a study in silence, for the most part. If not silence, then self-control. Brett Yang isn’t particularly known for his restraint, so—it’s a good time to start learning, because all the words he’s got bouncing around in the pit of his throat sure as hell aren’t gonna be happily received by the man he wants to give them to.

They’re still trying to escape, though. Fucking traitors.

It’s a test he’s doing his best to pass with flying— _hovering_ , more like—colors. He can barely manage to rein the words in, keep them locked within the crumbling jail yard of his mouth. It doesn’t help either, the way Eddy’s hair turns amber in the cold sunlight against the forest green, the way Eddy’s muscles ripple under his skin as he wields the axe, the way he just _is_ : a warm presence by Brett’s side, unwillingly holding his heart in those hands.

Brett watches his best friend, observes and looks on as he always does. Now, it’s different: rose-colored lenses, sentiments raw on his tongue, half-formed memories knocking on his heart asking to come in.

Falling in love, it turns out, just makes everything ache.

He ends up being pretty useless when they start decorating the Christmas tree, partly because he keeps getting so distracted by the DIY Brett-and-Eddy figurine, and also because Eddy keeps coming back to it even though it’s already hanging on the tree, adjusting and re-adjusting it like it still needs fucking adjustments after he’s tweaked it a dozen times already. It’s a weird compulsion, maybe. Ridiculous. The sight still makes something in his chest quiver.

But it doesn’t mean anything. Or rather: it doesn’t mean anything he wants it to mean.

And so Brett forces his mouth shut, play-acts intimacy like he’s on a goddamn award-winning soap opera on TV. Bring in the awards and the accolades; he is going to perform like his life depends on it. Anything to keep the words at bay.

(Words, it turns out, can build him up and tear him down in equal measure, easy peasy.)

• • •

Here’s another conundrum, because he can’t ever catch a fucking break, _ever_ : he tends to jump into situations with reckless abandon whenever he’s emotionally compromised. Case in point: he’s got his mobile in his hand and Belle Chen’s phone ringing at what must be an ungodly hour on the other side of the world before he fully realizes what he’s doing.

He’d back out if he could, but then there’s a litany of questioning _hellos_ in his ear because he hasn’t said anything since the call connected, and—well. _Fuck_.

“Hi, Belle,” he says, because he is _not_ going to play chicken with Eddy’s sister. No way.

“Oh—hey, Brett, merry Christmas! How are you?” She sounds happy enough to hear from him, though he’s sure he’s probably intruding on her time. _God_ , he’s an idiot. “Is everything okay with Eddy over there? It’s just—you never call me first, so I’m a bit concerned.”

There’s a question, there, in the last few syllables, because it’s true: Brett never calls Belle up first. She calls him to ask after her brother and greet him on holidays and congratulate him whenever she hears about him winning competitions and such, but. He doesn’t call her when he can text her.

If anything, that’s probably why she sounds so suspicious, amidst the barely-concealed yawns. Now he’s not quite sure whether it’s the guilt or the worry that’s making his stomach feel sour.

“Yeah, no, sorry,” Brett mumbles into his phone. “Just, uh. Just wanted to see if I could ask for a listening ear. For something I have to say. If that’s okay with you.”

Well, if Belle’s silence indicates anything, it’s surprise and even _more_ suspicion. But then there’s just the rustling of fabric, the creak of a bedframe, the muted _thump_ of a body falling back against a mattress. “Of course, Brett. You can talk to me about anything; you know that.”

(He’s only ever done this sort of confessional twice before with Belle. Both times had been about Eddy. This is the third.)

So: how do you explain your shitty fake dating plan that’s been slowly unraveling because of that Realization that’s been a decade in the making? The answer—in the case of Brett Yang, at least—is to devolve into a tirade that lasts for a good half hour. The elder Chen, bless her soul, doesn’t say a word in judgement of his master plan, but neither does she seem very surprised. Either she’s learned to expect these sorts of shenanigans from Brett, or Eddy had already told her.

Before he can decide which scenario is more terrifying, Brett’s mouth does the thinking for him as it blurts out: “Are you going to say anything?”

“Sorry, it’s just a lot to take in. Give me a second, okay?”

Shit. Now, he feels worse. “Okay, okay. Sorry.”

Belle hums, the sound tinny as it drones through Brett’s phone; it’s an adequate accompaniment to the ragged flailing of his heartbeat. It’s fine for a moment, here in the waiting. But then the next words come and he loses all composure he’s managed to build up a few seconds ago.

“So. He must really love you, huh?”

Ah. What a fucking stellar conclusion.

“That’s,” his breath skitters. Air in, air out. “That’s not a funny joke.”

“It’s not a joke—it’s an observation.”

Never before has he ever wanted to choke on his own spit before now. “How so?”

“Listen to yourself, Brett. Play back what you just told me.” Brett opens his mouth to reply, but Belle ignores him, continuing to barrel on forward. “Everything he’s done for you so far, and you _don’t_ think he loves you? How is this a joke at all?”

“You don’t understand,” he says, and he _has_ to make her understand, has to show her the bigger picture so she can stop unknowingly hurting him. “Look—I’m. I’m in love with him.”

Brett waits for a moment, expecting Belle to reply with shock or horror or laughter or whatever else a sibling does when faced with the unexpected revelation that their brother’s best friend is head over heels for their own flesh and blood.

He waits. And waits. And waits a bit more. And when the silence continues on with an air of smug knowing, Brett has to face the disturbing fact that maybe the revelation isn’t so unexpected after all.

Shit. Shit shit fuck _shit_.

“Please don’t tell me I was that obvious. I didn’t even know it yet, and I was _that_ obvious.”

“I didn’t even say anything,” Belle tells him, her voice all smiley. _So fucking unfair_. “Calm down, yeah?”

“Yeah.” His feet begin to pace back and forth, carving an uneven zigzag across the fluffy carpet. “Yeah, I’m calm.”

(He’s really not, but Belle, thankfully, doesn’t comment further on his agitation.)

“So. He loves you.”

God, _this_ again. His voice hardens, syllables sharp enough to cut. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I’m not kidding you, Brett; you’re a big boy now,” Belle retorts, the bedsprings creaking as she seemingly shifts her weight. “Don’t you think it’s true? He wouldn’t go halfway across the country to fake date just _anyone_ ; you know better than that.”

“I know, Belle, I know.” He _does_ know, but he feels sick to his stomach just _considering_ the damn concept. “But why would I even believe that?”

“You really don’t think he loves you?” Brett keeps his mouth shut; Belle correctly interprets his silence as disbelief. “Because from where I’m standing, it feels like he does.”

“Eddy’s—he’s not—he’s _not_.” _Please don’t let me even think of it_. Just a hint of wishful thinking, and it’s all over. He _can’t_. “Please don’t say that.”

“You know, if he was in your shoes,” Belle says, and _no._ No, he doesn’t want to think about Eddy in his shoes, but then she keeps going: “If he was in your shoes, doing this fake dating scenario with you, he’d try to do something to get you to realize his feelings. He’d—I don’t know what he’d say, but he’d say _something_.”

And that’s where that train of thought hits an impasse, really. If their positions had been reversed, if Eddy was in his place, knowing Brett loves him and wanting to put on this fake dating farce for the promised rewards and _knowing Brett loves him_ —well. This nonsense would probably be laughable to him, wouldn’t it?

He would find it hilarious. He would make a joke out of it, because that’s what they’ve always done.

( _I'd rather switch to viola than do that with you._ Remember that?)

(Will he ever fucking forget?)

“Oh? Say what? _I know you’re in love with me, and that’s why I asked you?_ _You could never refuse me anyway, so_ —hah, fuck.” He’s distantly aware of his own words ringing in the empty room, too-loud for the four walls surrounding him, but he’s already too far gone, trapped in a pit of mingling disbelief and hurt. “Yeah, right. _I’d_ never say that out loud.”

“What,” Belle trails off, obviously stunned by his violent outburst. To her credit, she bounces right back into the conversation, right to the quick. “Why, because you love him?”

“Because I’m a decent human being,” he mumbles, “despite all evidence to the contrary.”

The eye roll he’s pretty sure Belle’s indulging in right now is almost audible. “Of course, but more than that, you care a whole lot. It’s just the same for him, you know, hypothetical scenarios aside. Why else would he follow you there?”

“Yeah, no, it’s not like that.” Denial sits easy on his tongue; it tastes all too familiar. Comforting. “It’s not. He’s—he’s not.” _He can’t be._

“Isn’t it? Isn’t he?” Belle doesn’t even have to raise her voice to get him to shut up. “He could be with me here right now in Rotterdam, but he’s not. He could be with our parents right now on a sunny beach somewhere, but he’s not. Heck, he could be anywhere in the world right now, but he’s there with _you_ ,” she stresses, “pretending to be your boyfriend and shivering in his jeans like he always does.”

And goddamnit, but Belle’s words strike a chord in him, verbal arrowheads finding soft flesh. The fight bleeds out of him, then, and he sags against the windowsill, steeling himself against the fresh onslaught of emotion slamming against the walls of his soul. Here it comes, the ache behind the bluster: “It’s not the kind of love I really want.”

“Not if you don’t fight for it.” It’s offered with soft hands, this kernel of truth. “Not if you don’t _ask_.”

And there it is. Of course. Love’s always a leap of faith, a jump off a cliff, waiting to hit rock or rescue. Brett finds himself clutching the edge of the table, muscles taut. Bracing for impact, in all aspects. “Is it really possible?”

There’s a pause, in which he imagines the woman on the other end of the line smiling at him and his idiocy. “I think you’re asking the wrong Chen sibling that question, yes?”

As usual and so not all that surprising, Brett Yang has to concede to Belle Chen’s wisdom. “Yeah,” he tells her, staring out unseeing into the snow.

“You’re doing just fine, Brett.” Funny; he doesn’t think that’s true at all. “Say hi to Eddy for me. Or not—he’ll probably freak out if he hears us discussing him like this.”

“Why, because I’ve apparently lost my mind?”

“Not over that, no.” Again, the feeling that Belle’s silently laughing at him, despite the softness of her tone. He’s probably going to have to get used to that for the foreseeable future, damnit. “Take a chance on him. Who knows? You might be surprised.”

She leaves him with those words ringing in his ear, long after they’ve moved to other subjects to wind down and she’s bidden him goodbye.

_You might be surprised._

Well, if she puts it _that_ way. Brett breathes in deep, closes his eyes, and allows himself—just a little—to hope.

• • •

When he goes to find Eddy, it’s with a calmer mind, the wild beast of panic tucked carefully away in the darkest innards of his skull. Screaming into his pillow and stress-eating aren’t exactly the best of coping mechanisms, realistically speaking, but they did help. A bit. Somehow.

It doesn’t take long before he finally finds his best friend, curled up on the window seat with his head turned towards the frosted glass pane. The door creaks as Brett enters, and yet—he could’ve sworn the lines of Eddy’s shoulders grow stiffer. _What?_

“There’s a storm out there,” Eddy says before he can try to figure out what’s happening.

“Yeah. Nana says it might take a few days before it goes away.” Brett shifts his weight, left leg to right leg, as he mentally flails about in the silence. Fuck, he’s never felt this awkward around his best friend before. The feeling’s weird as hell. _Buck up_ ; moving on: “At least that’s what the news says.”

The other man still hasn’t swiveled his gaze in Brett’s direction; that small non-gesture alone triggers alarms in his head. “Damn it,” Eddy murmurs under his breath, the expletive drawn out and stretched thin. “I wanna go home.”

(Someplace distant, a storm siren is blaring.)

“What? Why?” Brett steps closer, forcing a smirk— _casual, casual_ —onto his lips. “Are you getting cold feet or something?”

Eddy blithely ignores him. “I just wanna leave. I mean—I’d do it. Even if I have to dig out the car and drive back through the storm, I’d do it.”

Worry begins to drip acid in his gut. “That’s a fucking ridiculous plan, and you know it,” Brett shakes his head. He takes another step closer, and then another, and then another, watching the way Eddy’s spine straightens with every nearing action with an encroaching sense of dread. “What’s wrong?”

“I just don’t think I can spend another day here, really. Pretending and stuff.” The other man half-turns his way, profile shadowed by his hair in the lowlight. “Sorry.”

“What do you mean? You—you said we were fine.”

“Well, we’re not really fine, are we.”

(It’s not a question.)

He finds his hands clenching into fists, barely resisting the urge to throw himself at Eddy’s feet and beg for answers. He can grovel, if he has to. “Can you please just tell me what’s wrong?”

The query breaks Eddy’s composure, as it were. He pivots to fully face him, a manic spark in his eyes. The sight’s enough to make Brett take a wary step backward. “ _This_ , Brett.” He waves his hand at the space between them, eyebrows furrowed and mouth drawn tight. “ _This_ is what’s wrong, okay? I didn’t think you’d lie to my face about things, but here we are, I guess.”

 _The fuck?_ “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I heard you,” he says, stiff as a block of ice, “talking to Belle.” At that confession, Brett flinches as if he’s just been struck. He can practically feel all the blood draining from his face. Shit. _Shit_. “I mean, really? ‘I know you’re in love with me so I asked you because you’d never refuse me?’ _Please_.” Eddy’s shaking his head, laughter grating like nails on a chalkboard. “Exactly, right?”

And.

“ _Exactly_?”

“Yeah,” says the other man, unheeding of the way the confirmation grounds Brett’s heart into the dust.

( _Exactly_ , he says. Like—that’s exactly how he’d do it, if he were in Brett’s shoes: like it’s nothing, like it’s a comedic one-liner for people to laugh at and take unseriously. Bring in the television audience, open up the studio lights.

 _Exactly_. Right.)

“What’s there for me to deny about it?” Eddy continues, huffing a quiet laugh of contempt. “I mean, _clearly_ , someone here likes to think he can string a guy along because he knows this guy won’t ever tell him no.”

A chill is beginning to seep through Brett’s bones; it has nothing to do with the cool air around them. _Is that what you really think of me?_ He blinks once, twice, opening his mouth to retort. “Don’t be an asshole.” Eddy looks at him pointedly, and _fuck_ , no, that’s not fair. He’s throwing a verbal jab before he even realizes he’s doing it. “At least _I’m_ not the one flirting on the job.”

It hits its mark. “ _Excuse me_?”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice Charles hanging around your every word, man. Maybe we really should put this whole charade thing on hold, because, y’know, I’m keeping you from falling in love and shit.” Daggers to the heart, these verbal blows. Brett taps his finger against his temple, smirks with a scathing sort of confidence he does not feel at all. “Perfect timing for that breakup, like we discussed, yeah?”

“ _Perfect timing_ , he says.” Eddy snorts, turning his face away. “Just biding your time to release me into the wild like a long-suffering pet—I see how it is.”

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do? If I’m keeping you from your one true _fucking_ love, then I should be releasing you whenever it’s convenient for you, right?” _No matter how much it would hurt, right_? Brett grits his teeth, jailor to the reckless words running around his tongue with criminal intent. _That’s what someone who loved you would do, right?_

This declaration, apparently, is the wrong thing to say. Eddy whirls back around towards him, dark eyes ablaze. “And what do _you_ know about my one true love? You said so yourself, you’ve never fallen in love with anyone.” That jab is a low blow, and they both know it. Eddy’s shoulders hunch over; Brett’s shoulders straighten, stiffen up. “You—you wouldn’t know the _first thing_ about falling in love with someone you’ll never have.”

What the _fuck_. The statement hits too close to home, it’s not even funny. “Well, believe me, I know a lot about _that_ now.” Because he does, doesn’t he? He’s gone and fallen in love with someone who’s probably finding love somewhere else, in someone decidedly not-Brett. It hurts, goddamnit, but it’s happening, and it’s not something he can do anything about.

“Yeah, yeah, you know a lot from watching me, I know, I know.” Eddy waves a hand in his direction, dismissive, and hell, but Brett doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. “I’m as obvious as the fucking sun, aren’t I? Can’t wait to hand me over to someone else so you can live in peace again and I can move on?”

The ache in Brett’s chest seethes crimson, but he manages to pull up the patented Resting Bitch Face he’s used to bullshit his way through difficult situations at the Con. Judging by the look on his best friend’s face, Eddy knows exactly what he’s doing. “If it helps you in any way, I don’t see why not.”

The other man finally, _finally_ looks him in the eye, and it’s a sucker punch to the gut. Even now, Brett’s still in love with him. Even now, he still wants to wrap his arms around those shoulders, press his cheek to that chest, and never let go. It’s not a feeling that goes away with anger or grief, no matter how strong, but right now, it’s barely there for a second before the torrent of distress sweeps it away under the waves again.

(Hope dies a quiet death in his chest.)

“Great. Okay. Good to know you’re still looking out for me, in spite of everything.” Eddy takes to his feet, moving around the room and grabbing things off the shelves.

Brett’s not an idiot. He’s pretty sure he understands what the other man is doing, but he has to confirm: “What are you doing?”

“This is me fake-not-fake breaking up with you, yeah? Just leave me alone.” Eddy’s shoving jackets into a duffel bag, and the panic in Brett’s blood begins to spread throughout his body with every thunderous beat of his heart. “Give me a few hours, and I’ll be fine. Just—a few hours, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay.” Eddy doesn’t pay him an inkling of attention, and he _doesn’t know_. He doesn’t know how to make him stay, and so he flings out the first thing that comes to mind. “What if Nana sees you? Can’t—can’t this wait until we get the manuscripts?” _Are you really gonna jeopardize our mission right now?_ It’s a long shot, but yeah, when Eddy glances at him, he knows that hadn’t worked a miracle.

“Sorry to tell you this, Brett, but I’m not as stone-cold as you are. I’m no good at pretending like everything’s fine and dandy, which things just _aren’t_ right now.”

“Stone-cold?” Wow. Incredible. “So that’s what you really think.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“I’m not.” He totally is, but who can blame him if his ears catch the vague accusation? “But thanks for implying it. I hear you loud and clear.”

“You—”

“Don’t give a shit.” Brett shrugs his shoulders, forcing _nonchalance_ to settle down over him like a blanket, like a shield. “Fine, go if you want to. Not like I can stop you anyway. I don’t care.”

Eddy shakes his head at him, disbelief outlining his features. “Proving my fucking point,” he sighs, dropping the duffel bag at the foot of his bed. “I’m not really going to leave you alone out here, you bastard. Just leave me be for a bit and let me figure out how I’m going to continue this charade with you when I’m fucking sick of it.”

 _What a decent human being_ , Brett thinks insidiously. He watches Eddy stride over to the door empty-handed, which should mean _something_ , but he’s tired, he’s hurting, and he wants to maim one last time. One last swing of the fist, one last plunge of the knife—

“I never took you for a coward.”

Eddy pauses on his way out, looking over his shoulder. “Well, maybe even after a decade, I guess you still don’t know me after all.”

The door closes with a dull _thud_ that rings with finality. Brett lowers himself into the chair Eddy had just vacated and puts his head in his hands.

(He is _not_ going to weep.)

• • •

They’ve rarely ever fought before, is the thing.

It’s like a fever dream: one minute, he’s in the room where he’s been emotionally torn apart by his best friend, and then the next, he’s sequestered away in the sitting room, snacking on some of the coffee kisses he baked, because hell if he’s giving any to their original recipient. Eddy doesn’t deserve any coffee kisses right now; fuck ‘im.

He doesn’t call Belle again. Doesn’t tell her she was wrong about her brother. What’s the point in driving that particular point home even more?

He’ll be happy to be left alone to his misery, but then there’s a shadow falling over the carpet, and—well. Of course Helen Lee Yang has a sixth sense about this. “I saw Edward stomping about on the snow outside. Is he alright?”

Oh _god_ , she already knows. “We had a,” Brett pauses, remembers the fallout and how much his grandmother _doesn’t_ need to know every detail of it, “ _disagreement_.”

Helen’s eyebrows climb up her aged forehead. “Oh?”

“What did you do, Brett?” Charles looks over at him, a mock-horrified expression on his face. “He looked like he saw you kick a puppy. _Ten_ puppies, even. Don’t tell me you finally broke his heart or something?”

Brett snorts, doesn’t mention the truth’s really more the _other_ way around, because his grandmother’s standing three feet away, and he’s not looking to explain any more than is necessary right now, thanks. “Very funny, Charles.”

Helen clucks lowly, waving a hand towards the ginger-haired man. “Go over there and watch over Edward for me, will you?” Charles goes to stand by the window; she goes over to sit next to Brett. “Now, tell your grandmother—what happened?”

Ah, shit, maybe he _does_ have to explain. “We just had a little fight, that’s all.”

(“He’s coming back inside,” Charles calls out.)

“What did you fight about?”

“I don’t know,” Brett says. “It—it wasn’t—I might’ve hurt him, and he might’ve hurt me, and we both said things we didn’t mean.” He clasps his hands together tight, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. “Or I didn’t mean what I told him, at least. I’m scared of the fact that I don’t really know if it’s the same for him.”

The old woman hums, the notes all creaky. “It is easy to hurt when we are hurt. Like an animal, you lash out when you are wounded or frightened. That is natural, but you can never, ever leave it at just that in the end.”

He doesn’t know if that’s a jab at his own inaction and inability to kiss and make up with Eddy right now, and so he doesn’t mention it. “Did you ever have _disagreements_ with grandpapa?”

“ _Aiyah_ , all the time,” Helen says, a spark in those eyes that tells Brett she knows he’s trying to change the focus of their discussion. “We were both very stubborn, you know? Headstrong. Unyielding. But we never allowed that to separate us for more than a night. When we could face each other, we discussed our disagreements and came to good understandings. A lot of strong understandings, because we were honest.” She looks at him, gaze tracking over his face like she’s searching for something, and then smiles. “Something that you and Little Chen must be.”

It’s the sort of advice Brett’s been half-expecting to receive, but it doesn’t make the pill any easier to swallow. “I just. I’m not sure how to. How to be honest.” It’s hard to be, when he’s perched on the edge and isn’t sure someone’s waiting for him at the drop. “I don’t know what to _do_.”

(“Uh, Brett?” Charles’ voice has taken on a worried tone.)

“You take the leap of faith,” she tells him, placing a hand on his shoulder. The point of contact is warm, and he finds himself leaning towards it. “That is how it always is with love.”

Of course. Yeah. Of course.

Still.

“I don’t know if I can—”

“ _Brett!_ ”

Brett looks over to Charles, eyebrows drawn tight with irritation. “What?”

“He’s got a blanket and some pillows with him.” Charles points out towards the window. “He’s beyond _sleeping on the couch_ level, now—did you tell him to fuck off to the car or what?”

“Ach, language,” Helen murmurs amusedly, but it’s lost to the flurry of _shockpanicanger_ that courses through his veins, a great rumble in his ears. Before he knows it, Brett’s halfway across the room, face nearly squished to the glass as he watches a distant figure marching his way through the snow to the toolshed.

Deep down, Brett thinks: _What the fuck is he thinking?_

Deeper down, Brett thinks: _He’s going that far to avoid me?_

Both thoughts bring a wave of fury and anguish that threatens to drag him off his feet, but he pushes the emotions down, whirling around to stalk over to the shoe rack and grab a pair of boots. There’s no other choice to be had moving forward. Not for him, not when it comes to the safety of the man he loves.

“I’m going after him.”

“That’s a good idea, except,” Charles points once again to the thick whorls of snow falling outside the window, his expression pointed. And okay, so maybe it’s a foolhardy plan to just jump into an incoming snowstorm or whatever, but he’s not about to leave Eddy alone.

“A little snow’s nothing, Charles. That’s my,” he hesitates for the briefest of seconds, “boyfriend right there, and I’m going after him.”

“ _A little snow_ ,” Charles chuckles, shaking his head, but Brett’s got no time for his nonsense, moving past him and out the door.

Helen’s waiting there in the hallway, a wooly scarf and a beanie outstretched in his direction. He doesn’t dare meet her eyes while he’s bundling himself up against the elements, but he can imagine the approving glint he might see there. “Be safe, Little Yang. Return immediately—the storm might grow stronger, and I do not want you two to be snowed in.”

“That sounds bad, huh,” Brett says faintly, throwing his thickest coat over his thermals. He doesn’t know anything about getting snowed in, but he assumes it’s not a very ideal situation to be in.

“It’s super bad, man,” Charles quips. “You better go fast.”

The old woman hustles them both to the front door. “You must go _now_. I will ask Charles to find the shovel and help clear the snow.” With a cheeky little _leave it to me!_ and a jaunty salute, Charles leaves to do just that.

It seems a bit stupid now to feel shy around his grandma, but Brett doesn’t look up from fiddling with the laces of his boots until Helen nudges him, fingers stroking through the hair peeking under his hat like she used to do when he’d been a child. “You know what to do. Go on.”

“Yeah.” He straightens up, nods firmly in her direction. “I’ll bring him back, Nana.”

And with that, Brett’s out into the cold, bracing himself as the storm begins to wail around him. One foot in front of the other; onward, onward.

 _Eddy, you fucking idiot, I’m coming_.


End file.
